


True

by Kirbyfest



Category: The Pretender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-24
Updated: 2001-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirbyfest/pseuds/Kirbyfest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had everything she'd ever wanted, and she didn't know if she wanted it any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the spring of 2000 (fourth season), but with a twist. Everything up to third season's "Wake Up" is consistent, but this story makes a sharp turn just before "Wake Up:" what if Thomas hadn't been killed, and Miss Parker moved west with him?

The house was quiet, and Parker didn't bother to turn on the lights as she shut the front door behind her. The fading sunset gave her just enough light to move around without falling over the power tools scattered about various parts of the house, and that was all she needed.

It was good to get home early and have the house to herself. So good, in fact, that it bothered her. She'd moved out here to be with Thomas, to live a normal life free of the Centre, and here she was happy that she had a little time alone.

Tossing her purse and the mail on the foyer table, she headed up the stairs, peeling off clothing as she went. Even though it was spring, and the thermometer showed that Oregon was getting warmer, it still felt colder to her than home had ever felt. Layering was the only strategy that seemed to work. Jacket on top of shirt on top of knit tank; by the time she was in the bedroom she was down to just her bra and underpants, and shivering.

Quickly, she donned casual layers-- turtleneck, sweater, jeans. There wasn't much need here for her elegant black dresses, for leather, for the fitted suits and high heels that had been her uniform back east. Her job called for little more than business casual, though she tended to dress up more than was required. At night, the silk pajamas she'd worn constantly back home just weren't warm enough. A lot had changed.

Parker ran lightly back down the stairs and grabbed the mail as she headed into the kitchen to start dinner. Nothing interesting. The gas bill, a couple of catalogs-- the usual take at the Parker/Gates household.

Miss Parker pulled out one of the catalogs. It was for Thomas, a construction catalog of some kind, featuring lots of implements that looked like the Centre could easily adapt them for torture. She stared at the cover for a long moment, the pictures blurring.

She shivered.

* * *

Parker kept dinner simple; she was all too conscious of the pounds she'd gained since moving out here. She threw things together quickly as Thomas changed from his grubby work clothes-- grilled tuna and a salad, with some wheat rolls added in for Thomas. He'd started up his rehabbing business again; since he didn't sit on his ass all day at work, he could get away with eating pretty much whatever he wanted. This was fine, except when he brought home things like Oreos and sugar-crispy-crunchy cereals that he thought she would be able to avoid. Ha.

Taking another sip of her wine (deliberately not thinking about those calories) she glanced across the table at Thomas, who was telling an animated story about one of the current members of his crew. It was a funny story, and Thomas was telling it with all of the charm and humor that had drawn her to him. Parker felt her lips smiling, knew she was responding appropriately-- but it all felt very far away, like she was behind double-paned glass that was muffling the sound.

She realized with a start that Thomas had stopped talking and was looking at her quizzically. She shook her head. "Sorry. I'm tired, I guess."

"No problem. Long day?" He popped a bit of bread into his mouth.

"No longer than usual." The words sounded flat, dull, and she smiled so that things didn't veer off into a long conversation about job satisfaction. "It just started early."

He leaned over and ran one hand down her arm affectionately. "That happens when you're working with Asia. You should go relax. I'll clean up."

God, he was so sympathetic. So understanding. "I won't turn that offer down."

As Tommy took the plates out into the kitchen, she poured the rest of the wine into her glass and headed into the living room to finish it off.

* * *

They had a fantastic lead on him. She could feel they were only minutes behind him-- it was like a jagged, icy stab in her gut, egging her on. Parker could practically smell him, and she motioned to Sam to head for the other side of the doorway to cover her back when she entered.

"Keep back," she hissed at Sydney, who was hovering behind her so closely that the sharp scent of his aftershave tickled her nose.

Her gun was cold in her hands. Her heart was nearly beating out of her chest, and she knew behind that door was something-- a man, a woman, death, life, excitement, change. She was close, so close...

And suddenly she was sitting straight up in bed, wrapped in the cool darkness of their bedroom.

Just a dream, Parker.

She ran one hand over her face, collecting herself. Her heart was still going at a post-high-impact-aerobics rate, her skin damp, and she took several deep breaths to calm herself. Thomas was sound asleep next to her, looking peaceful and content. All was right in his world; there were no old demons in his past to disturb his rest.

Her breathing slowing, she stared at the dim outline of Thomas, feeling a pang of jealousy. Uncomplicated, honest Tommy sleeping next to Parker as she dreamed about guns and chases and woke up feeling like electricity was racing through her body, setting every cell on alert. He only knew parts of who she'd been before, what she'd done before, and because of that he could never wholly understand the woman he loved.

Goddamnit.

Cutting off the self-examination, she burrowed back under the covers, next to the heat source that was Thomas. Why _did_ men generate so much heat in bed? Even though they had the same body temperatures as women, it was like sleeping with a blast furnace. But still she cuddled close to him, arms around him as if holding him tight would push away the traitorous thoughts dancing at the edge of her consciousness.

It had just been a dream.

* * *

It was the crack of dawn, and on only half a cup of coffee Miss Parker had just wrapped up the negotiation that promised to be the most difficult-- and most interesting-- part of the day.

Hanging up the phone, Parker enjoyed the brief thrill of victory. The rush was followed quickly by the stomach-dropping realization that, at 7 a.m., her day had already peaked.

Several long gulps finished off her lukewarm coffee, and she rose and strode over to the coffee maker for a refill. At this hour, with the company's owner overseas, Parker was the only person in the office. Their assistant wouldn't be in for at least another hour. The tiny import-export firm was profitable, but didn't exactly have a large staff. Davis, the owner, had been thrilled to find Parker: fluent in Japanese (among other languages), a brutal negotiator, and looking more for a challenge than for a large paycheck. It was a far more interesting job than she'd hoped to find.

Parker flipped the switch on her computer and settled in front of it to check her e-mail. Her inbox was bursting. There were several large attached files from one of their Malaysian companies. She'd been waiting for the data, and finally receiving it guaranteed that the rest of her day would be spent number-crunching. Oh, joy. Rapture.

Ah-- mail from Sydney. She opened it eagerly, scanning the text. As usual with Syd, it was short and didn't give away much about Centre business. He was well, and busy with several new research studies (the details of which didn't interest her in the least). Broots sent his regards and wanted her to know that Debbie had gotten a speaking part in the school play. Reading between the lines, it was clear they still hadn't found Jarod. Business at the Centre was going on as usual, without her.

Thoughtfully, she closed the e-mail and sat back in her chair, swiveling to stare out of the window. Leaving the Centre was what she wanted, and the thought of going back gave her chills. This was what she'd wanted. This was her shot at a normal life. She had a home, a man who loved her and whom she loved. They had friends, jobs, a life. This was what she had wanted.

The door to the office clattered and Miss Parker instinctively reached for her gun that wasn't there-- still, after all this time. "Good morning!" chirped Amy, the administrative assistant, bustling into the lobby. "I brought doughnuts!"

Startled, Miss Parker glanced at her watch. Good lord, it was close to 8:30. Had she been daydreaming all that time?

"Miss P?" Amy peered into Parker's office, concern in her voice. "You all right?"

"I'm fine." Smiling, she shook off the ghosts and stood up. "Any chocolate glazed in there?"

* * *

The week tumbled by filled with work, Thomas, discussions about the bathroom currently under rehab, and a dinner out with friends (Thomas' friends more than hers; he had a gift for relationships that she'd never quite gotten the knack of). Friday morning, she woke to Tommy kissing her, long and slowly.

"Mmmm." What a way to wake up-- warm and safe, his rough-shaven face rubbing against hers, the familiar taste of him. She pulled away regretfully. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Well, I'm going to be gone all weekend," he murmured. He apparently still felt guilty about taking off for a weekend with the guys, even though she'd reassured him at least fifteen times that she didn't mind.

"Ah." She slipped her arms around his neck. "So. You're looking for a good-bye present?"

She was late for work that morning-- not that it mattered, with Davis still out of town. It was busy, though, and she spent most of the day on the phone. It was midafternoon before she was able to actually return her only personal telephone message.

"No, Janis, you're sweet. I just can't." Parker waved at Amy and when the young woman came into her office, handed her a sheaf of papers. She covered the phone mouthpiece. "Fax to Owen? Thanks." She returned to her phone conversation. "No, I'm not going to be lonely. I have plenty to do this weekend. I'll probably be in here most of the time." She paused, happy that Janis couldn't see the spotlessly neat desk before her. "Absolutely. We'll see you Thursday. Bye."

Parker hung up the phone with a bit more force than was really necessary. Janis had an obsessive need to organize everything and everybody, and since her husband Bob was one of "the guys" that Tommy was off with, Janis was bound and determined that "the gals" should get together over the weekend.

Parker was not a "gal," had never been a "gal," and had no intention of spending an evening with Janis and the other wives/girlfriends/"gals." She could take them in a larger group, with Thomas around as backup, but the thought of spending an entire Saturday night alone with that bunch of women made her head start to ache.

Amy bustled back in, returning the pages and the fax confirmation sheet. "You're not really going to be in here this weekend, are you?" she asked, probably worried about her own elaborate social life being disrupted. She was in her mid-20's and reminded Parker vaguely of a blonde Rita Hayworth, so she had her pick of men. Fortunately, she was also very good at her job, and with her sense of humor she was easy to work with.

Parker laughed, running her hands through her hair. "Absolutely not. I was lying through my teeth."

Amy smiled sympathetically. "You on your own this weekend? Thomas gone?"

"He's off with his friends. A little time alone doesn't sound bad to me, actually."

Amy nodded, though she didn't look like she truly understood. Parker held back a smile-- at Amy's age, she hadn't needed any time alone either. Age and experience meant that the occasional Saturday night at home was welcome, rather than something to be embarrassed about.

"Hey!" Amy looked like the proverbial light bulb had gone off over her head. "You could come out with us."

"Us?"

"There's a whole big group of us going dancing tomorrow night." She rolled her eyes. "Charlie's getting too serious." Charlie was her latest conquest. "Anyway, I thought a night with the entire gang would be fun. And easier than having him stare goopy at me all night."

" 'Staring goopy' isn't always a bad thing," laughed Parker. "Thanks, Amy, but I think I'm going to stay home and rent a movie or something."

Amy shrugged, and for a split second, Parker felt like the parent of a teenager. "Suit yourself. But if you want to join us, we're going to Boo's-- over on Fifth Street. We'll probably be there after ten."

* * *

That night, Parker went to bed at nine o'clock, which was early for her, and when she woke the next morning her body felt like she hadn't moved an inch all night. It was odd to be in a bed alone again. She stretched one foot out, tentatively flexing her muscles. Ow. She must have been exhausted to sleep that soundly, for so long-- it was almost ten.

She pulled the covers up under her chin, feeling like a little girl again. Any minute her mom would peek her head in the door. "Wake up, sleepyhead! I'm making waffles!"

Childhood Saturday mornings meant syrup, and orange juice, and her mother's face, beautiful without any makeup in the morning sun, smiling at her as if the Centre had nothing to do with their lives.

Miss Parker squeezed her eyes shut, tight, pulling the sheet up a little higher. That was a long time ago. She'd accepted-- mostly-- that she might never get any answers about who killed her mother. Maybe it was Jarod's father, maybe not; she knew Jarod would continue trying to solve that particular mystery and would probably let her know, somehow, what he found out. If she'd hung onto her obsessive quest to find out who had murdered her mother, she could never have lived a normal life. Never. Her mother wouldn't have wanted that.

Jarod. She'd only heard from him once in the months since they'd moved out here. He had sent a gorgeous flowering something plant as a housewarming present; the card was short and unsigned, but in handwriting she'd know as his if it was shuffled in with a thousand other handwriting samples. Congratulations on your new life, Parker. Look forward.

Thomas was the one who kept the plant alive and blooming. She had no skill with house plants.

She could just stay in bed all day. Parker pushed away that thought. There were things to do in this life. Errands and housework, minutiae that ate up the free time. Once, she'd hired people to do these things. This was a different world, and in this world Miss Parker picked up her own dry cleaning.

It was late afternoon by the time she got home from running errands, and after the second trip to the car to bring in the last of the grocery bags Parker collapsed on the couch, not even bothering to take off her shoes. She still wasn't quite used to the amount of food a man needed to have around. Hell, she still wasn't quite used to a lot of things.

A microwave dinner, a rented movie, and by 8:00 she was bored out of her mind, pacing back in forth in front of the television. She'd thought the movie was a comedy, but it was a Bergman-esque psychological thing, and she just wasn't in the mood for intense emotional self-analysis.

Parker strode over to the bookshelf. Nothing that she hadn't already read, and she wasn't the type to re-read books. There were rehab things to do around the house, but that wasn't something she really enjoyed; she just did it when Tommy was around.

Parker was bored, bored, bored. In the old days-- she shook herself, mentally _and_ physically. These weren't the old days. That was then, this is now, Parker.

But the thoughts crept back in, traitorous thoughts that made her feel like her skin was too small for her. In the old days, she'd have been at work. Syd and Broots would be there, probably. Angelo might scuttle through the ductwork and pay a visit. Lyle would probably skulk around the doorway, leaving a trail of slime behind him. It had been a completely and totally dysfunctional way to work, to live.

She missed it.

Parker stopped pacing, stopping in front of the picture window that looked out on the gently sloping, wooded front yard of her beautiful house. Their house. Hers and Thomas'. She hadn't admitted it to herself until now-- hadn't let herself think it-- but she missed _home_. Blue Cove, Sydney, Broots. Her father. She missed the travel and excitement and power and danger that came with her job-- the constant feeling that she was on the edge of things. She missed coming home to an empty house and ordering in three kinds of Chinese food, all for herself, rather than going grocery shopping. She missed being in places that she'd known all her life, places filled with memories of her mother.

How she felt about Thomas hadn't changed. She cared about him. She loved him. But this life wasn't giving her what she had thought it would. She'd thought if she started to lead a normal life, that she'd turn into a normal person. Apparently, things didn't work that way.

She pressed her hands against her temples. Stop it, Parker. You've made this choice and you have to stick with it, learn to like it, because the alternative is returning to a life that trapped and tormented you. You have a man who loves you, a job that you enjoy most of the time, a beautiful house that you are making into a home. This is your every dream coming true.

And she was bored out of her fucking mind.

The mantel clock chimed the hour, and Parker glanced at it, hands still against her temples, pushing hard against her skull like she could push out the thoughts pounding inside. It was nine o'clock. She had to get out of here, get a change of scenery-- get the hell out of this house. Where had Amy said they were going dancing? Boo's? Not exactly a place that the thirtysomething crowd she and Thomas knew would go to, or be at.

Perfect.

* * *

Parker was uncharacteristically nervous by the time she got to the club. She _worked_ with Amy, not to mention she was several years older than Amy and her friends. As she pushed the door open and the wall of smoke and sound hit her, she nearly turned around and ran home. What was she thinking? Was she fucking crazy, coming to a dance club to hang out with a bunch of 25 year-olds?

"Miss P!" Too late to run; Amy had spotted her and it looked like she was genuinely happy to see her. The young woman hurried over, her eyes bright with excitement and alcohol, her skin covered with a fine sheen of sweat from what had probably already been more aerobic exercise than Parker did in a week at the gym. "You made it!" She stepped back and made a motion with her hand that Parker hoped was complimentary. "You look very spiff."

"Thanks. I think."

Amy, emboldened by adrenaline and beer, laced an arm through Parker's and dragged her over to the table, weaving through the crowd with amazing ease. At the table, she introduced Parker around and got the waitress' attention for more drinks.

Amy's friends were welcoming and a lot of fun, and not the least bit bothered by the presence of Amy's boss. Above the teeth-rattling din of the music, Miss Parker focused on drinking; martinis were evidently the specialty of the house and she downed them quickly, while they were still icy cold and the olives barely marinated. Martinis just kept arriving, thanks to these very nice friends of Amy's. Parker found herself laughing more than she had in some time-- Charlie was especially entertaining, and he seemed to have figured out he shouldn't moon over Amy, which meant _everyone_ was having a good time.

When Miss Parker found herself nearly falling over into someone's lap, she realized she should probably stop drinking. Cabs weren't plentiful in this town, and she wasn't going to be in any shape to drive home if she didn't quit now. When the waitress returned, Parker grabbed her sleeve. "Jenny..." A mark of a good, drunken evening was when you knew the name of your waitress. "No more martinis for me. Diet something?"

Jenny grinned, revealing a gold tooth that Parker hoped devoutly was fake. "On the way."

Parker glanced at her watch. Somehow it had gotten to be well after one in the morning. The crowds hadn't lessened; the room was wall-to-wall people amidst a haze of smoke and colored lights. This was really the only place in town for the over-21, under-30 crowd to drink and dance, and it seemed like everyone in that demographic was here tonight. The sunken dance floor had been filled all night, too-- one group left and others took their place, keeping the area consistently crowded, a pulsing, indistinguishable mass of people.

At least she'd worn black, which fit in with about 99% of the people here. Suddenly warm, she slipped off the short jacket, slinging it onto the back of her chair. Even at her advanced age and with a few pounds extra, she thought wryly, she still looked fine in the simple sleeveless knit top she had underneath. And it was a hell of a lot cooler.

Amy had disappeared somewhere, and Miss Parker got into a not-quite-coherent but very interesting conversation with another friend of Amy's, Alan, who was also there alone. His boyfriend was out of town, he informed her breezily. They got so involved in their conversation that they didn't realize the rest of the group was on the dance floor, and they were practically alone at the table.

"Apparently, they don't find international trade policy as fascinating as we do." Parker shook her head in mock consternation.

"Imagine that," laughed Alan. "Let's dance, Parker. Gotta work off some of this alcohol."

He was right. He was absolutely and completely brilliant. She left her jacket at the table and, grabbing his hand, followed Alan through the throng to where the rest of the group had managed to claim a section of the dance floor.

The music wasn't Parker's taste, but it was loud enough that the beat worked through her body and made dancing easy, however annoying the vocals were (if you could call them vocals). Parker pushed away frat party memories and threw herself into the moment. She hadn't danced at any place like this since she'd been with Thomas-- he'd hate the noise and the smoke, and would get out as quickly as possible. He'd never let himself be smashed into six inches of floor, dancing amidst so many different bodies that it was easy to lose track of who you were actually dancing with, let alone whose body you were (or weren't) supposed to be up against.

God, it felt good, even if she didn't know exactly how twentysomethings danced these days. Hot and sweaty and loud and anonymous, lost in the music, just moving like there was no tomorrow. No consequences, no electric bill, no predictability of any kind. There was just the bass throbbing through her, leading her, combining with the martinis to make her feel a little loose, a little disconnected, more than a little out of control. Parker could feel a bead of sweat trickling its way down the curve of her spine; she was going to be drenched. She didn't give a damn.

She grinned at Alan, who returned the smile and then, suddenly, was grabbed by another friend of Amy's (Sheila? Susan?) who started whirling him around, laughing. There just wasn't enough space for them, and everyone had to scramble to get out of their way. Damn, she was still not sober enough to move quickly, and she very nearly fell, twisting hard to catch herself...

Hands closed firmly around her bare arms as she fell, hard, against a black silk-clad chest; the hands set her back on her feet. Parker looked up, tossing the hair out of her eyes with a flip of her head, ready to thank the man who'd saved her from sprawling gracelessly all over the dance floor.

It was Jarod.

Her eyes widened with shock as they met his, large and dark and impassive. His hands were still on her arms, and they stood motionless in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by movement. All Parker could do was stare. What in the _hell_ was Jarod doing here? Here? Holding on to her, silent, his eyes not leaving hers?

She should do something, she should say... She should tell him to get his hands the hell off her. She should take him down and get someone from the Centre's Seattle office out here to haul Jarod back to his cage. There were a thousand things she could do instead of staring into his eyes, hardly breathing. She didn't do any of them.

Instead, she started to dance.

Whatever reaction Jarod had expected from her, it was clear this wasn't it; she could see the surprise in his eyes as she moved. And, boy, moving was interesting. Dancing in this mass of people meant dancing against Jarod. Right against Jarod. Flat up against him, body to body, the silk of his shirt hissing against the thin knit of hers. She felt his breath catch as her breasts brushed against him, and his hands tightened on her arms.

Jarod was nothing if not adaptable, God bless his little Pretender heart. His hands slid to her shoulders and he started to move with her. Nothing major, nothing that would get him invited to join the Solid Gold Dancers, but enough that he blended in with the crowd. His gaze hadn't left her face, and she shut her eyes so she didn't have to see his own growing even darker as they watched her. She didn't want to think about what she was doing, what he was thinking.

Eyes shut, relying just on the feel of him and the music, she slid her arms around Jarod's waist, running the palms of her hands over his back. Hell, if she was going to dance with Jarod, she was going to _dance_ with the son of a bitch. She had been hot and drunk and confused, but right now...

Right now there were just Jarod's hands gliding over the bare skin of her arms, down the sides of her upper body, making her shiver even in the midst of the crowd's heat.

Jarod's hands rested on her hips-- lightly, not doing anything they didn't have permission to do. He was such a gentleman, this man. Considerate, even as his breath came ragged from the full contact of her body against his, even as her hands traced the sharp lines of muscles along his back.

The music changed to something a little slower, a touch more sensual, and Jarod slipped his hands around to rest at the small of her back. Startled at the change, Parker's eyes flew open and met his-- and she was immediately lost in his gaze, in what she saw there; something inside her went liquid at the sight.

She should stop. This was wrong. But Thomas had never looked at her quite like this, with an unguarded, open, raw hunger. His hands had never felt quite like Jarod's felt now on her back, sliding up underneath the knit top, the rough skin of his hands slick with her own sweat. She didn't get this ache inside her when she looked in Thomas' eyes.

However wrong it was, she couldn't look away.

When his mouth met hers, it was like an explosion, hot and startling. Her mouth opened to him immediately. Oh, God, she'd wondered how an adult Pretender would kiss, and now she knew. He kissed exactly how she wanted to be kissed, with a fierce intensity that frightened her even as it aroused her. His tongue, the taste of him, she could get lost in this and never come out, and she sighed helplessly against his lips, running one hand up the back of his neck, into his hair. He was as drenched in sweat as she was. She could even taste it on his mouth, salty sweet.

Someone jostling against her reminded her that they were supposed to be dancing. Jarod apparently got the same message, because he started moving again, his hands sliding down to her buttocks and pulling her closer to him-- as if she could get much closer in this crowd. But trying was its own reward; she could feel him, hard through the denim of his jeans.

She should stop. She should step away and call the sweepers. Take control of the situation, Parker, bellowed that damn voice in the back of her head, sounding disconcertingly like her father. Take control.

She should... Hell, who cared what she should do. Fuck control. She was doing what she _wanted_ to do.

Parker broke away from Jarod, holding back a smile as she felt his breath catch at the loss of her. Eyes dancing, Parker took his lower lip between her teeth, gently, then let it go with exquisite slowness, turning her back to him. What did they call what she was doing, besides being a tease? Ah, yes. The shimmy. She shimmied against him, the length of her body deliberately grinding against his. His arms slipped around her waist, his hands pushing up her top to rest on her stomach, the tips of his fingers brushing the skin below the waistband of her pants. He was hard against her, and she pressed her hips into him. Once. Again.

Somewhere in the back of Miss Parker's mind, she was fully aware that what she and Jarod were doing on the dance floor could get them arrested in some cities. Instead of letting that bother her, she just turned back to him and kissed him again, as if she could memorize the taste of him if she just kissed him deeply enough, long enough.

Jarod's hands were on her back, and she shivered as his fingers traced circles on her skin, mocking the movement of his tongue. This was like a drug, this man, his mouth and hands and the music and the heat. It wasn't just the alcohol. This was something else. Kiss me, Jarod, and touch me and take me back to some little hotel room you've surely strewn with Pez and DSAs. Throw me on the bed and drive me crazy with want until you take me, sweeter than candy and hard as our bodies can stand. Just make this ache inside me go away.

She might have whimpered, might even have said his name aloud. She was never sure, but Jarod pulled away from her, breathing hard. His face was damp-- with sweat?-- and he was shaking.

When he spoke, his voice sounded like it had been wrenched from someplace miles inside him, and he couldn't meet her eyes. "No."

He turned and was lost in the crowd, gone before she could even think about whether she wanted him to stay.

* * *

Parker never remembered leaving the bar or driving home, never remembered negotiating the streets, parking the car in the garage, or going up to the bedroom. It was all a blur, overwritten with stark and aching memories of Jarod's face, of how his hands felt on her. When she looked up and realized she was standing in the bedroom, it felt like she'd awakened from a long, involved dream. Nightmare. Hallucination.

Her clothing couldn't come off quickly enough. It stank of smoke and sweat and things she didn't want to identify, and she left the various pieces in a trail behind her as she got into the shower. Parker turned the water as hot as she could stand, letting it beat on her face.

What in the hell had she been thinking? She hadn't even said two words to him, just started dancing, playing a game that could only end in one way. Well, in this case, there an alternate ending-- Jarod had left.

What would have happened if he had stayed? She shook her head, and water flew everywhere. She knew _exactly_ what would have happened if he'd stayed.

Goddamnit.

Was it Jarod she'd truly wanted? Or was it what he represented-- her old life, the danger and excitement that living on the edge had brought her?

She was an adrenaline junkie. She was sick. This normal life made her feel trapped, stagnant, like it was killing her off. Cell by cell, minute by endless minute she was dying inside. Instead of taking pleasure in all the wonderful things she had-- things she'd fought hard to get, things she'd wanted her entire life-- she ached for a life that could get her killed, and that had left her alone and lonely much of the time.

Was that the life that her mother had wanted for her?

The hot water on her face mixed with tears of anger, of frustration, of doubt.

By the time she got out of the shower she'd probably emptied the water heater, but she didn't give a damn. She didn't even bother to put on pajamas as she crawled into bed, and fell almost immediately into a long, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Sunday morning, when her eyes opened, the previous night hadn't magically disappeared. Damn, damn, damn.

She'd seen Jarod last night. Hell, she'd practically seen him naked last night. She should call the Centre, call Daddy, reopen the door that was so tenuously closed.

She could just picture it. Hello, Centre? This is Miss Parker. I saw Jarod last night. And where did you see him, Miss Parker? Well, I ran into him at a dance club called Boo's. He was in silk, I was a tank top, and we practically fucked each other on the dance floor. Want any more details? Come and get him!

Oh, God.

This was going nowhere, and she pressed her hands against her eyes for one brief, angry second. Movement, activity would help her clear her mind. Parker got out of bed and dressed quickly, mechanically, not bothering with niceties like makeup-- jeans, sweater, hair slicked back into a ponytail.

She'd find something to do to make the day go quickly, and she decided on a plan as she walked downstairs. There were garden beds to dig up for the coming summer. There was woodwork to be sanded, painting to be done. The bathroom could do with a good scrubbing. There was plenty of good, hard work that she could lose herself in until Thomas got home.

That thought paused her in the middle of a glass of orange juice. Thomas would be home tonight. He'd be thrilled to see her; he'd want her. Badly. They had hardly been apart since moving out here. To Tommy, he'd be coming home to the same woman he'd left two days earlier. He had no idea.

But tonight, would she be making love to Thomas? Or would she be remembering Jarod, remembering his hands running down her damp skin? Remembering the way he smelled, so separate and distinct from all the other bodies on the dance floor that thinking about it even now made her breath catch?

* * *

All week long she had a disconnected feeling. Voices seemed a little muted, colors were less bright. She didn't fight it, though. It was safer to be removed from what was going on around her.

Parker thought Tommy looked at her strangely once or twice, but he never said anything and she put it down to simple paranoia. Your girlfriend was all over another man on Saturday night, Mr. Gates, and you don't suspect a thing because you're the kind of person who believes in happy endings. You're not the kind of person that could possibly imagine your girlfriend (who moved across the country to be with you) plastering her sweaty body against another man and exploring his tonsils (among other body parts) while you were out of town.

Don't think about it, don't think about it.

Amy apparently hadn't seen the Parker Erotic Dance Exhibition, and spent Monday chattering away about how much fun it had been, how everyone had loved having her there, how Alan wanted to take them out to lunch next week. "You'll have to come out with us again!" she gushed at one point.

Miss Parker just smiled, her eyes remote. Yeah, when Raines becomes a missionary, kiddo.

Thursday night she and Thomas met Janis and Bob for dinner at their favorite little Italian restaurant downtown. Thomas let her off in front of the restaurant, and she waited outside as he went to park the car. She was wearing just a thin sweater, and the breeze went right through her. Crossing her arms, Parker shivered in the chill of the evening air.

She stepped to one side to let people through the door, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a familiar neon glow, so familiar that her stomach twisted painfully. It was the dance club from Saturday. There was a short line out the front, even on a weeknight, and when the door opened she could hear the music pounding out.

Thomas came up and slipped his arm around her waist. "Isn't that where you met up with Amy and her friends last weekend?"

She dragged her eyes away from Boo's and looked at Thomas, at his face smiling down at her. "That's the place."

They turned and headed into the restaurant. "We could go there for a drink after dinner," Thomas suggested. "It sounds like you had a good time."

Oh, Tommy, you have no idea. For a fraction of a second she could smell the smoke and the sweat of the club, feel Jarod's mouth on hers, taste him, and she had to take a deep breath. Focus, Parker, she thought fiercely as they spotted Janis and Bob. Focus on this place, and this man next to you, and your friends. Focus on your life.

The food was delicious, the wine excellent, and the conversation was light and entertaining. Everything was wonderful.

She drank too much at dinner.

As they were getting into the car to drive home, Thomas gestured towards Boo's again. "Sure you don't want to stop in for a drink?"

"I'm sure."

The wine, combined with the motion and the warmth from the car's heater, lulled Miss Parker into a half-sleep as soon as they got on the road. Thomas reached over and took one of her hands in his. Yet another reason to love this man, she thought drowsily. Even with one hand he's a good driver.

"Parker? You asleep?"

She smiled, stirred. "I'm getting there."

"It was nice to see Jan and Bob tonight." He squeezed her hand lightly.

"Mmmm." Talking felt like too much work. Thomas seemed to understand, and was silent for the rest of the ride home, just holding her hand.

When they got home, Tommy went into the kitchen to get them something to drink-- just water for her-- and Parker stood in front of the picture window again, wrapping her arms around herself.

She could see her life stretching out in front of her: a loving husband, a beautiful home, an interesting job. She was already sure she didn't want children, which Tommy knew, but they would still have a life full of contentment and friends and good things. It was the life she should want.

Thomas slipped up behind her. She shivered as he kissed the top of her head. "Are you cold?" he asked, handing her the glass of water.

"A little," she admitted. She snuggled into the curve of his arm, drawing warmth from him, solid and strong.

"You've been distracted all week." Thomas pressed his cheek against her hair. "Everything all right?"

How could she reassure him when she didn't know the answer to that question herself? "Everything's fine."

"Good."

It was like a scene from a Hallmark card, or one of those idiotic coffee commercials: standing in her beautiful house, looking onto the faintly moonlit lawn with the arm of a man who adored her wrapped around her shoulders. All it needed was a soundtrack of sappy music. The only problem with this Hallmark moment was that the adored woman felt like she was going to throw up.

She had everything she'd ever wanted, and she didn't know if she wanted it any more.

* * *

Friday morning was worse than the days preceding it, and they hadn't been especially good. It didn't help that Davis was in and feeling sociable, and after two hours of enduring his babble she claimed a headache and hid in her office, door shut, until she heard him leave for a lunch meeting.

"Is he gone?" Parker poked her head out of her office.

Amy threw her arms up theatrically. "He's gone. Thank goodness. And he's with Stu, so he'll be gone for hours-- if he even comes back. Stu always feeds him alcohol."

Alcohol didn't sound like such a bad idea right now. Back at her desk, Parker was seriously considering crawling under it and taking care of the contents of the flask she kept in a bottom drawer when she heard the lobby door open, heard a voice outside her office.

"Hello. You must be Amy. I'm Jarod. I'm an old friend of Miss Parker's."

Parker's head flew up so quickly that she knocked it on the desk lamp. Hard. "Shit," she muttered, rubbing her scalp. What the hell was he doing here? Jarod and Amy were chatting in the lobby, Amy laughing at something he'd said. She glanced at the phone-- she should call Daddy, call someone-- but instead, she took a deep breath and went to her office door.

"Jarod. How nice of you to stop by."

He grinned at her, his face all innocent friendliness. Amy was next to him, flushed and giggly. He'd worked his magic Pretender spell on her, and had probably charmed her out of everything but her damned eyeteeth. If he spent another five minutes with her, those would be gone too.

"I came to see if I could take you to lunch." If he were any more amiable, she'd have thrown a chair at him. "It's been so long since we've talked." The undercurrent was as clear as his lifted eyebrows.

Amy looked up at Jarod and-- yes, she actually batted her eyelashes at him. Sports fans, even the Soviet judges are going to give her a 10 for this one. "How long have you known Miss P?"

He glanced back at Parker, and there was something in his eyes that belied the friendly tone of voice. "Oh, we've known each other since we were children. We're practically brother and sister."

The word "incest" flashed through her mind. "We go way back," Parker snarled as she grabbed her purse and stalked out of the office ahead of Jarod. "I'll be back by two," she tossed over her shoulder, realizing as she left that she'd never spoken to Amy in that tone. It was the old voice, her Centre voice, and as Parker glanced back she thought that Amy looked oddly like she'd been slapped.

* * *

She didn't bother to walk with him, but got out of the building so quickly that Jarod's long legs had to work to keep up. "What the hell _do_ you want?" she said in a low voice as he caught up to her. "I should be calling the sweeper team right now."

"But you're not." His voice was strangely flat. "I'd be gone by the time they got here, anyway."

She stopped and turned to face him, hands on her hips and every line of her body harsh, angry. "What do you want, Jarod?" His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, so she couldn't read his expression, and in the back of her mind she noted that he looked very businesslike today. There wasn't a shred of black silk in sight. "What?"

He shrugged. "Actually, right now, I'd just like to buy you lunch."

Miss Parker studied him for several moments. He never wanted anything that simple, that direct. "I don't think so." She had no idea where this was going, but wasn't going to sit across from him in some diner like it was an everyday thing. "Let's walk," she said, heading towards the small park across the street from her office without bothering to see if he'd follow. He did.

It wasn't a large park, but on this sunny spring day there was a lot of activity-- other people escaping the confines of their offices, mothers and children getting out in the open after shut-in winters, and the usual scattering of homeless people looking grumpy at the intrusion into what was, probably, their home. Hands in the pockets of her jacket, Parker walked slowly, ignoring Jarod beside her. He silently matched her moderate pace, but she was aware that his eyes were fixed on her.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose, finally breaking the silence. "All right, Jarod. Why are you here?" Are you here to mess with my life? Are you here to save some poor lost soul? You're probably just here to fuck with my head, and I'm not in the mood right now. She glanced up at him; he was pulling off his sunglasses and his eyes were crinkled with laughter. He knew what she was thinking. Good. Annoying as hell, but good.

"Can't I just have come to Oregon to say hello?" Jarod slipped his sunglasses into the pocket of his coat.

"I doubt it."

"I just thought you should be up to date with things happening on the East Coast, Miss Parker."

"I already am." Parker ignored the flare that had lit up inside her at the thought of hearing details about Centre business. She was gone from that world.

But you want to know, Parker. You need to know.

It was entirely possible she was losing her mind-- now she was hearing voices in her head. Next stop: the dancing baby. Parker passed her hand over her eyes, briefly, summoning her resolve. Control the situation. "I don't think there's anything you can tell me that I'd be interested in hearing, Jarod, unless you've come to have yourself sent back to the Centre."

He smiled, his teeth intensely white in the sunlight filtering through the leafless trees, and her stomach lurched. Goddamnit. He got to her. He always had.

"I don't think so."

"Then why the hell do you want to 'share' with me?" she snapped. "It's not like we're best pals, Jarod."

Hurt flashed across his face and then disappeared as the Pretender in him adapted, shifted. Parker could almost see him locking his emotion behind those carefully constructed defenses he'd had no choice but to develop. She'd hurt him, hit home somehow? She hadn't even been trying.

"I'm sorry." His shoulders were set stiffly. "You've been out of the loop, and I wanted to tell you..." An edge of something slipped into his voice before he could stop it, hide it away again. "I just thought you might like to hear what I've found out about your mother's death."

She stopped short, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Her heart was going to pound out of her chest. She was going to beat the shit out of him for playing games with her. "Yes," she said angrily, staring at the ground. Don't let him see your face, Parker, or he'll know that he's tearing you up inside in a thousand different ways. She hurt him, he hurt her. Would this never stop? "I do. Are you going to make me beg for it, you son of a bitch? You usually do."

Parker couldn't see him, but she felt him go still. One hand reached over to touch hers and it was so gentle, so warm, that tears became a very real possibility. "No, I'm not."

For once, he didn't ask her for anything in return-- he just told her what had been happening, what he'd learned. Later, Miss Parker would realize it was one of only a handful of times since they were children that he'd simply talked to her like another human being, not hanging up on her mid-conversation, or playing elaborate games, or doing any one of the hundreds of things he'd done since his escape to remain in control of whatever conversation or situation he was involved with.

Jarod sketched over the events of the past months, and Miss Parker had to work to not allow her face to look completely shocked. No one had told her any of this. Not Broots, not Syd, not Daddy. Jarod meeting up with his father, finding out about the Centre cloning project, spiriting the young boy away from his Raines-guarded prison. It was like hearing the details of a bad horror movie, and it was far worse than she'd ever imagined the Centre could be.

Parker shook her head. "Cloning? Jarod, you sound like you've been watching too much late-night television."

His eyes were grim. "I brought pictures." He handed her a large manila envelope, watching as she paged through the contents. Pictures of hideously deformed children, adults, unidentifiable blobs of flesh. She glanced up at him, shock sharpening the lines of her face.

"Unsuccessful cloning attempts," Jarod informed her. "There were a lot of them," he added, his voice husky. "Your mother knew. She tried to stop them, back at the beginning of the project."

More pictures-- this time of a young boy whose face ripped open something inside her, in her carefully guarded store of memories. She gasped, unable to hold it back. "Dear God, " Parker said softly. "It's you, Jarod. They did clone you."

"It was like looking in a mirror. A younger mirror."

In the picture, the boy was sitting on a narrow bed in a small, empty room, his thin shoulders hunched forward. He looked absolutely desolate, absolutely lost, and it was all Miss Parker could do to stop herself from reaching out and touching the picture.

Jarod had looked exactly like that, a long time ago. Even the eyes were the same.

Parker pushed that thought aside. Now wasn't the time or the place for that particular line of thinking. She looked up at Jarod, unable to stop the strain from showing in her voice. "Where is he now?"

"He's with my father." Jarod couldn't stop a smile from creasing the corners of his mouth.

"Your father." Parker tucked the photos back into the envelope. "And how is Major Charles, the murderer?"

Jarod shook his head, staying calm despite the cutting, angry tone of her voice. "He says he had nothing to do with your mother's death. They were working _together_. He was trying to help her rescue the children. Rescue me, rescue you. He told me Raines shot _him_ on the day your mother died, and took my father's gun with him."

"Do you believe him?" That's the dumbest question on record, because Jarod would probably believe his father if he said he was Kermit the Frog. But she asked it anyway, and searched Jarod's eyes for the conviction behind his answer.

"I do." Jarod's voice was firm and clear, and for some reason Miss Parker believed that, if nothing else, Jarod believed his father.

She'd have to meet Major Charles for herself, hear what he had to say-- then she'd know. But for now, this would do. It would have to.

Jarod paused near a brightly colored vending stand. "Since you won't let me buy you lunch, Miss Parker, I'm going to buy lunch for myself. Unless you'd like a hot dog?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself," Jarod shrugged.

Parker waited, tapping her foot, while Jarod bought a hot dog from the stand and lathered almost every possible condiment on it. He took a huge bite of it as he walked back over to her. "Mmm," he said, his mouth full.

"That looks disgusting." It actually looked good, but she wasn't going to admit that to him.

"It's delicious," he said, his words barely intelligible around the food, and they walked for several moments while Jarod wolfed down half the hot dog.

"So the boy is with your father. Where?"

"I don't know. After Sydney got shot..."

"What?" She stared up at him, stunned. "Sydney was _shot_?"

He paused, obviously surprised at this particular blank in her knowledge. "You didn't know? They were aiming for your father, and Sydney took the bullet instead. He almost died."

Miss Parker couldn't think of a response, but Jarod knew where she was going, as always. "Dad and the boy got away. I stayed behind to help Sydney and ended up spending some time back at the Centre."

"No one has told me _any_ of this, Jarod," she said, and the anger in her voice was almost visible. "Not a goddamned thing. I just got an e-mail from Syd last week."

"He's recovered well," Jarod interjected.

"Great. Nice of him to tell me, or Broots. Or Daddy." The last words were whispered, almost to herself, but Jarod heard them. Of course.

"You should be used to your father telling you whatever he wants to, Miss Parker."

She repressed the urge to tell him to shut up. She needed him to stay in a chatty mood right now; someone, finally, was telling her what had been going on in the world-- her world-- since she left it. She needed...

Hold that thought. "Wait. You were back at the Centre?"

Jarod nodded, swallowing. "Yes." There was a whisper of that lost little boy in his eyes. What had that time back in captivity cost him? "Not for long."

No one had told her. She'd spent years of her life chasing this Pretender, and when they'd finally caught him no one had even bothered to drop her a note.

"Why _would_ they tell you, Miss Parker?" Jarod asked calmly. She _hated_ it when he knew what she was thinking. It made her feel odd, like someone was crawling around in her head. "You left. You fought to leave, to get away from what was happening there. You wanted to leave it all behind and start a new life."

"You told me I should leave, too," she reminded him absently, kicking at gravel without interest.

"I did." His voice seemed to have dropped a notch or two, suddenly, and she glanced up at him to meet a gaze so intense it could have put a hole through cement. "You deserved a chance at the life your mother wanted for you."

She'd had the chance; it wasn't any of this man's business that the chance wasn't quite what she'd hoped it would be. Change the subject, deflect that gaze. "And I did. But it would still be nice if people told me what the hell was going on."

Why would they tell you, Parker? Jarod's question echoed in her head. She should find the nearest phone and get them out here to take this Pretender into custody. This annoying as shit Pretender who was munching on the last of his hot dog, his eyes not leaving her face.

She met his gaze, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Are you happy here, Miss Parker?"

"Yes. Thrilled. I have everything I've ever wanted." The way she said it, she could almost believe it.

He nodded, slowly. "It looks like you do. Except..." Jarod looked around, then with perfect aim sent his balled-up hot dog wrapper tumbling into a nearby garbage can. He leaned down and put his mouth next to her ear, and when he spoke, the warm breath sent a shiver up her spine.

"Except someone to dance with."

He was gone in a heartbeat, lost among a crowd of people.

Bastard.

* * *

Weekends weren't exactly filled with thrills these days, and this one was no exception. Thomas, still doing some kind of self-imposed penance for being gone the weekend before, spent nearly every waking (and non-waking) moment with her, being solicitous and gentle and loving and everything that any sane woman would wish for.

It wasn't his fault that this woman wasn't sane.

Saturday night, another couple in their group had a party. Susan and Dan were nice, although Parker didn't know them all that well. Again, they were Thomas' friends; he fit in here so smoothly. "Do we have to go?" Parker asked, sitting in front of the mirror as she got ready. Her lip liner looked like shit. Grabbing some tissues, she rubbed at her mouth fiercely.

"It looked fine before," Thomas commented mildly as he walked past her towards the closet, buttoning his shirt. "And the party will be fun."

Yeah. Loads of fun.

Susan and Dan had a beautiful home on the edge of a forest preserve; the house was warm and candle-lit and everything one could want in a party. Janis and Bob were there, along with several other couples, and after a delicious dinner (and plenty of very good wine) the men disappeared into a basement workroom to inspect some large power tool, leaving the women upstairs with coffee. Parker tried to stay unnoticed, tucked into a corner of the couch. She hated girl talk, hated discussing what cleanser worked best on old porcelain tubs or comparing new chicken recipes. She just didn't give a damn.

But the coffee was good, laced with plenty of Bailey's. She sipped it while she watched the other women talking, wrapped in the same detached feeling that had been her shadow for weeks. These were nice women. Intelligent, friendly women who, by all rights, she should be glad to have the chance to make friends with.

Friends. She'd had precious few of those, thanks to Daddy, thanks to the Centre and the life she'd led. Little Grace. Her freshman year roommate in college. Sydney. Broots. Jarod.

When she let herself remember it, Jarod's presence, his friendship-- for no matter what she'd said to him in the park that afternoon, they _had_ been friends-- was woven through her childhood like a brightly colored ribbon. They had shared some terrible and some wonderful things. In truth, they were each the only childhood friend that the other really had. That had changed, of course; she'd left the Centre for college, for work, but when Jarod had escaped, it had actually brought him back into her life. Funny how that worked. Then she'd fallen in love, and left him again.

And one night on a dance floor, he came back.

"...Don't you think?" Janis said brightly, leaning close to her.

"Sorry." Parker put her coffee cup down, trying to look apologetic. "I was a million miles away."

"We were just talking about Kimmy," Susan said, referring to her five year old. "She's having a fit because Dan and I told her that she won't be having any more brothers and sisters. She doesn't want to be an only child." There was an echo in Susan's voice, a shadow in her eyes; Kim's only child status was clearly not a choice on her mother's part, for whatever reason.

"I think only children have all kinds of advantages!" Janis added brightly. "You're an only child, right?"

"Actually, I have a brother," Miss Parker said, leaning forward and setting her cup on the low coffee table.

"Oh." Janis looked nonplussed, as if the Parker Background Check had been badly handled. "You've never mentioned him."

"We're not close." She had just won the understatement of the year award, folks. Possibly the understatement of the decade.

"So when are you and Thomas going to settle down and have kids?" asked Susan with a smile, obviously hoping to move the attention off herself.

Normally, that kind of question wouldn't get answered, but in this group, nosy was standard practice and not worth fighting. "Actually, we don't plan on having children."

"No kids?" chimed in Teresa. Parker had only met her a few times; Teresa's husband worked with Dan.

"No."

Teresa smiled, but the malice was clear. "Really. So you don't like kids?"

Parker had never cared for Teresa. Something about her manner reminded Parker of Brigitte, and her voice just itched along Parker's skin. "I like children." She kept her voice neutral.

"Really?" Teresa cooed. "You just don't seem the type." She glanced around the group. "Life without my Bill and the kids just wouldn't be worth living. I hope we have at least one or two more." Looking back at Parker, she shook her head. "I'm sure you can't _imagine_ that feeling."

Janis' eyes narrowed as Susan flinched, her mouth trembling.

Parker smiled.

It was a smile designed, created and implemented by the Centre, and Teresa actually drew back from her at the sight. "Gee, I don't know, Teresa," Parker purred, eyes fixed on the little blonde, pinning her down as if they were at target practice. "Good luck getting knocked up again, since your Billy's so busy trying to grab my ass every time I walk by him that I can't _imagine_ he has much time to think about screwing you."

Teresa's mouth dropped open, and Janis coughed, hiding her mouth behind one hand. Parker rose and went over to Susan, kissing the air by her cheek. "It was a lovely party, Susan," she murmured to the dumbstruck hostess. "Everything was wonderful. Thank you so much."

She strode out of the room, her chin high and a half-smile on her lips, in search of Thomas.

Don't try to play in the big leagues, sweetheart, if you can't even figure out how to hold a bat.

* * *

"Parker!"

She glanced up and Alan was standing in the doorway of her office. "Hi there!" They shook hands, and Miss Parker realized she was grinning like an idiot. It really was good to see him again; their animated conversation that night at Boo's had been one of the few parts of the evening she hadn't been fighting to forget. "What brings you here?"

He looked stern. "Did Amy not tell you?" Parker shook her head. "I'm here to take you two beautiful ladies out to lunch, if you can fit it into your busy schedules."

Amy waved a stack of papers at him. "I have to get these done, then I can go. Miss P, I'm sorry." She looked apologetic. "I thought I told you about this."

"Why don't Parker and I just meet you someplace?" Alan suggested. "Lily's? We can get a table." He touched Miss Parker's arm lightly. "You _are_ coming to lunch, right?"

Parker had five cost analyses to run and enough uncrunched data sitting on her desk to keep her busy for the next two days, but she pushed that knowledge away. "I wouldn't miss it."

The hostess at Lily's greeted Alan like an old friend, and they were soon seated comfortably in an overstuffed corner booth. "So." Alan looked like he was ready to settle in for a good chat. "Tell me about the boy toy you were glued to at Boo's."

Her face flushed before she could stop it. "What?"

"The guy you were dancing with that wasn't your boyfriend." Anticipating her response, he continued, "Of course I didn't say anything to Amy." His tone of voice suggested that he wouldn't snitch on her if someone was pulling out all his fingernails, one by one. "But you said your boyfriend was out of town, and all of a sudden you were over there smooching Mister Tall, Dark and Muscle-bound. You don't seem like the random pickup type, either, so I'm betting you know him."

Taken aback, Parker shook her head, applauding softly. "Damn, you're good."

Alan bowed his head slightly. "Thank you. Now, dish."

There wasn't enough time in the day for all the dish on this particular topic. Best to keep it short, simple and move on to the next topic. "Old friend."

"You have an interesting definition of friendship," Alan remarked, chuckling. "Are you sure he's not an old lover?"

By all rights, she should be freezing Alan off so badly he'd lose limbs to frostbite-- but something about him was disarming and dangerously trustworthy, and she found herself talking to him. "No. Just a friend. We knew each other as children."

"Well, you were both looking plenty grown-up." He paused as the waitress approached and they ordered sodas; as soon as she departed he headed right back to the topic. "Keep up that kind of dancing, you're going to have some explaining to do to the boyfriend."

"I don't want to think about it." Parker rubbed the back of her neck.

"Well," Alan said pragmatically, "You're not married, right? So what's the harm?"

"The harm is that Tommy-- the boyfriend-- deserves better."

Alan nodded as the waitress returned with the drinks, and waited until she left to speak again. "So he deserves better. I'm sure he's just wonderful. A god among men. Why weren't you dancing with _him_ that night?"

"He'd hate that place," Parker said morosely. "He'd hate everything about it."

"How do you feel about him? About the boyfriend, I mean?"

"I love him." Parker was aware that her answer sounded too hasty, too automatic, and she ran one hand through her hair, trying to collect her thoughts. "But I know what you're thinking. If I love him, why was I at Boo's dancing with... my friend?"

"Maybe you were swept away by the great music?" They laughed, and Alan touched her hand gently. "I don't know, Parker. Every time I've started looking seriously at other people, it's been a sign that I don't want to be where I am any more." He glanced up. "Here comes Amy. Let's be brittle and superficial so she can't bust you."

He greeted Amy effusively while Parker took deep breaths. She couldn't go on like this. It wasn't fair to Tommy. It wasn't fair to her. But what should she do? Was she ready to give up on what she did have here; leave what she'd fought so hard for?

She wasn't sure of the answer to that question.

* * *

Parker was halfway through sanding the woodwork in the third bedroom-- mindless, routine work that passed the time-- when she set down the sanding block with a sharp smack, sending up billows of dust through the sunlight.

Damn him. Jarod waltzed into her life, he waltzed out. It was all on his terms, in his time, and she was sick of it.

Well, he could kiss that control goodbye, because she was going to track his ass down. If he wasn't here now, Jarod would be back; he'd probably set up a base somewhere that he would return to, thinking he was safe.

Time to turn the tables.

* * *

Almost everyone underestimated her. Daddy, always. Lyle, generally. Even Jarod, to some degree; he had that omnipotent mindset garbage working against him. Perhaps the only people who knew and understood what Miss Parker was capable of were Sydney and Broots, and they weren't here.

She here, and things were different. When she'd lost Jarod before-- all those times before-- he'd been on the move. Now, he was coming back to the same place, and looking for the same person: her.

The odds had gotten much, much better.

Monday morning, she feigned a headache. Thomas was all concern and care, offering to stay home and minister to the needs of the invalid. "No," she said, her voice faint. "I just want to sleep." She half-smiled at him, hoping she looked pathetic and fragile. "If you could just bring me the phone, I'll call Davis and go back to sleep."

Tommy brought her the portable phone, along with a tall glass of orange juice. "Might raise your blood sugar." He kissed her-- gently, don't jostle the patient-- and left her in the dimly lit bedroom to recover.

She waited a good half-hour before getting up. It was a miraculous recovery. With a simple cover story all set to go, she dressed accordingly. Basic black pants and top. Comfortable shoes. She had a lot to do today.

The basement was cluttered with boxes and equipment and other random detritus of people who hadn't been in a house all that long, but it only took Parker a few minutes to locate the boxes of personal papers she was looking for. They were full of letters, piles of old memos that she felt like she had to keep for some reason. Leafing through the stacks, she smiled as she came across a forgotten picture of her with Sydney and Broots; it was a candid shot from sometime last year. She couldn't even remember when it had been taken-- probably at one of the hideous team-building exercises the Centre indulged in every decade or so-- but it had been in one of the rare, relaxed moments they'd spent together.

The photo went to one side; she'd keep this one out. But this wasn't the picture she was looking for. A few minutes later, she hit pay dirt: a battered Polaroid of Jarod. His hair was different now, but it was unmistakably him. Miss Parker didn't know quite when the picture was from, and was even less sure why she'd brought it with her to Oregon-- but it was just what she needed.

After a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, poring over a map as she ate, she checked to make sure the answering machine was on and headed out.

* * *

He wouldn't stay right in, or too near, her town. He'd keep a comfortable distance. Miss Parker had noted the names of several small towns within easy driving distance-- a half hour or less-- and those were where she started.

If nothing else, her time in Oregon had changed her people skills. Rather than behaving as if she was going to slit their moronic throats if they didn't talk to her, now she could actually come off as friendly. And people talked to friendly visitors, amazingly enough. It was a tactic she'd never had the patience to try before. Who knew?

Still, even though people were welcoming and pleasant, none of them had seen Jarod. She worked the motels and diners in the outlying towns, hoping for a hit.

It was nearly 3:00 by the time she made it to the third small town on her list, and Miss Parker was getting frustrated. She had to leave soon to get home before Thomas; she'd checked messages, and fortunately he'd only called once and said not to call him back.

She didn't want to think about Thomas right now.

She was tired and her feet hurt, even in practical shoes. Her face was sore from smiling at all the people she'd showed Jarod's picture to; fending off various hands and invitations also wore a woman down. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and when she spotted a diner, her stomach loudly reminded her that these days she was used to lunch no later than 1:00.

Screw it. She was going to sit down and have some lunch. And a big, cold glass of water.

At this rate, she'd have to call in sick at least one more day, she thought as she sank gratefully into the tiny booth. Another day of lying to Thomas, to Amy and Davis. She wasn't used to lying any more; it was part of who she used to be. Apparently, it was part of who she was again.

A waitress approached. Although she was wearing a pink nylon dress, her face was disconcertingly like Sydney's. "Honey, you look like you been put through my grandma's wringer washer," she said sympathetically, and her voice was so free of malice that Miss Parker had to smile. "I'm sure you'd like a drink, but we don't have them. Coffee do?"

"Coffee would be great. And water."

"Coming up." The waitress threw down a menu and headed back to the counter to pick up the drinks. Parker scanned the menu quickly-- nothing even close to healthy. Good.

The waitress delivered a steaming mug of coffee and a glass of water that was nearly the size of a pitcher, watching with satisfaction as Parker drank half the glass. "What can I get you?"

"Club sandwich, on toast."

"Fries?"

"Absolutely."

"Good girl. Grease is good for the soul." The waitress patted her shoulder maternally and left Miss Parker at the table, grinning. Grease may be good for the soul but it was hell on her ass. Not that she cared right now.

Resolutely, Parker didn't think about Jarod or Thomas or anything until she was halfway through the sandwich, all the way through the fries, and so full she felt mildly nauseous.

"Good sandwich, huh?" The waitress, collecting the plates, was obviously in a chatty mood; right now, that served Miss Parker's purposes.

"Delicious. I can't eat another bite."

"Not many people make it all the way through one of Arnie's clubs." She leaned one hip against the table, regarding Parker with frank curiosity. "Just passing through town?"

"I'm here looking for a friend." Parker turned and pulled the photo of Jarod out of her purse, showing it to the waitress.

"Hang on, honey." The waitress pulled up a pair of glasses from where they hung on a chain around her neck, slipped them on, and peered at the picture. Her face lit up immediately. "Hey! That's Jarod! Nice fella. How do you know him?"

The cover story-- which had worked like a charm all day-- was so far from the truth that, for some reason, Miss Parker couldn't use it any more. Not here. "He's a friend of mine. From when I was growing up." True, in a way. True in more ways than she wanted to admit. "I heard he was visiting, and I was trying to track him down."

The waitress nodded. "Yup. I think he was staying over at Frank's place." She spoke in the language of small towns, where everything was personalized.

"Frank's?"

"Forest Pines Motel. Hang a left out of the lot and you can't miss it-- it's the one with all the little cabins."

She'd found him, or at least where he stayed when he was here. She shouldn't feel so relieved. Or so energized.

* * *

Speed limits were made for ignoring, and Parker did so completely as she headed home from the Forest Pines Motel, desperately hoping she'd beat Thomas home. She'd gotten the phone number and managed a look at the register. The teenaged boy manning the front desk hadn't stood a chance in hell of keeping anything confidential from the moment she walked in. If she'd done her job, he'd barely remember what they'd talked about.

Jarod had been there, registered as Jarod Bunyan. He might be a genius, but he still hadn't figured out that he should be using different first names. And less obvious surnames.

His first name was probably all he felt he truly had, though, and she couldn't fault him for holding on to it.

There were no guarantees, but Jarod did tend to return to the same hidey-holes he'd been at before, and felt comfortable in. At least she had somewhere to start.

She made it home before Thomas. By the time he got home, she was in bed, sound asleep; she was exhausted. She'd had a long day, after all.

* * *

It was possible, of course, that Jarod wouldn't come back to town. That was about as likely as Lyle joining a monastery and doing charity work with refugees from the far East, but it was possible.

Parker knew Jarod would be back. He'd been in town twice that she knew of, and from what the kid had said, Jarod had stayed here several times. Keeping tabs on her, apparently. The thought should have angered her-- she'd raised hell about the oh-so-subtle Centre surveillance that had followed her when she moved-- but this just made her feel... odd.

She was careful not to call the motel every day. Frank or one of his employees would notice it. She called at different times on different days, asking for Jarod, hanging up quickly when he wasn't there.

He wasn't there for two weeks. In that two weeks, things went on as usual. Work was hectic; for retail, the Christmas buying season was spring and summer, which meant that import/export firms were busy now. The downstairs bathroom got gutted and mostly put back in place, pending a decision on wallpaper. Parker begged off a shopping expedition with Janis (who actually seemed to like her _more_ since the incident with Teresa), had another lunch with Alan and Amy, and had a giggling happy hour with Alan from which Thomas had to pick her up because she was in no shape to drive. Thomas pulled out his golf clubs and Parker wondered if she could make it through another summer without being dragged onto the golf course, which sounded worse than Chinese water torture to her.

It was what her life was. Good, bad, dull, exciting, indifferent; probably what everyone's lives were like. She was trying, desperately, to make it fit. If the edges were fraying, at this point she was apparently the only one who noticed.

I'm trying, Mom. God, I'm trying.

It was just another routine call to the Forest Pines Motel that early morning, and Parker was barely listening to the telephone, expecting to get the usual he's-not-checked-in spiel. When the perky woman on the phone said "Hold on, ma'am. I don't think he's there right now, but I can check!" Miss Parker nearly dropped the phone, and when she replied her voice sounded strangled, faint.

"No. I'll try back later."

She hung up the phone slowly, staring at the receiver like it was going to deliver some kind of secret message from God or Elvis or space aliens.

He was there. What now? She hadn't really gotten that far in her thinking. She should call the Seattle office, get a sweeper team, and take him in. She would truly be free of the Centre then; yeah, Miss Parker left the Centre but even after moving away she manages to bring in the prize lab rat! She gets a "get out of the Centre free" card, along with a nice set of Ginsu knives.

Or Jarod's capture could take her back in style, giving her all the Centre power she ever wanted. She could leave Thomas and the great northwest and go home.

Parker glanced at her desk clock. It was 9:30. She and Davis had a major client lunch meeting at 11:30 which she really couldn't miss, however tempting the thought was. She'd go to the luncheon and then come up with an errand that needed to be done.

And then she'd figure out what the hell she was going to do.

* * *

The only sound in the bedroom was the old wind-up clock on Thomas' nightstand; somehow, the regular metallic beat was comforting to Parker as she stood in front of her dresser.

She was still dressed up from the lunch meeting, but decided not to change. It felt like old times, hunting Jarod in the more formal clothes she used to wear. Her clothes, her armor.

All she needed was one more thing, and she crouched down in front of the bureau. In the back of the bottom drawer, her gun rested in a locked box that was tucked under a stack of rarely worn shirts. It looked exactly as it had when she locked it up all those months ago. Parker turned it back and forth, examining it closely. It felt hard and familiar, and it fit smoothly in her hands.

Parker clicked a fresh magazine into the chamber, checked the safety, and tucked the gun into the back waistband of her skirt, shivering at the cool metal against the hollow of her back.

A quick note to Thomas-- don't wait up, off to see a friend-- and she was gone. By the time she got back in the car, the gun was warm on her skin and felt like it had never left her.

* * *

The motel looked empty except for a pickup truck in front of one of the cabins. It was red and dusty, as if it had driven a long way to get to this tiny Oregon town and sit, empty, in front of a cheap motel cabin.

Parker sat in her car, tucked in a parking lot across the street from the motel, and stared at the truck as she drummed her fingers against the steering wheel. Jarod had never seemed like the pickup type, but he also liked fitting in to his surroundings and pickup trucks certainly fit in around here.

Her inner debate was solved as Jarod walked out of the manager's office building, laughing at something. He turned and waved to the person inside, then ambled down the row of cabins to the cabin behind the truck. Bingo.

Hello, Jarod. Welcome to _my_ world.

** **

Waiting was hell, but if she'd been stupid enough to come out here without a plan, she wasn't stupid enough to go in there until she'd figured one out. Shouldn't she call the Centre? Meet the sweepers at the motel, guarantee that he'd be taken in?

Yes, she should. Instead, she slouched down lower in her seat and waited.

Time passed, and the late afternoon sun started casting long shadows over the car. Parker was debating the wisdom of just kicking Jarod's door in when the cabin door opened and the man himself walked out and got into the truck. He drove out of the parking lot, heading west.

Where was he off to? Dinner, errands, a visit to the Parker/Gates neighborhood? Who the hell cared; this was exactly what she needed. She'd get in-- hotel doors were rarely a barrier to anything or anyone-- and when he came back, there she'd be, and it would be her game.

Parker waited another five minutes, just to be sure, then slid out of her car and headed for the cabin, keeping her eyes open for the return of the red pickup. No sign of it, even as she stood in front of the door, gun moved around to the front of her waistband.

She could certainly pick the flimsy lock if she had to, but she tried the knob first. You never knew. It was locked, but the swipe of a credit card and it was all over.

She opened the door a crack, getting hold of her gun with the other hand; the cabin was dark and, apparently, quiet. In an instant she was inside, door shut, looking around the small room. The curtains were shut, but she could make out the standard cheesy motel efficiency setup-- tiny kitchenette, some chairs, an unmade bed. There was probably a coin box somewhere on that bed, and you could put quarters in and the bed would jiggle. There was the faint smell of damp that was so pervasive up here, like the basement of a summer house. Jarod certainly didn't pick four-star establishments. It was stuffy, and a few degrees too warm.

Until hard metal, icy against the back of her neck, cooled her off.

Fuck.

Parker raised her hands slowly, letting her gun swing uselessly from her thumb until it was taken from her. She heard the magazine snapping out.

"Thank you," said Jarod's voice, oozing politeness. The overhead light flicked on, though the weak bulb barely illuminated the room.

"How did you get back in here?" There was no back door that she could see. If he'd come in through a window, he would have been within easy sight of her car. Damn, damn, _damn_ him. She should have known.

"Have a seat, Miss Parker." Of course, he didn't answer her question.

Taking a deep breath, she walked over to one of the rickety chairs near the window and sat, deliberately crossing her legs and not caring how much thigh showed. Jarod's eyes didn't flicker; he just watched her with that steady gaze. His gun was still trained on her. Her gun was nowhere to be seen.

Well, she wasn't going to be the first to talk, so she took a better look at the little cabin. Not large, not fancy, but it looked clean; Jarod's things were pretty much contained to the small kitchenette table and one of the nightstands, though she didn't see anything that looked like DSAs. It was hideous 70's modern, but it seemed comfortable.

"Nice place," she commented, realizing too late that she'd been the first one to break the silence.

One eyebrow lifted as he regarded her. She hated that smug look he got. It made her want to beat it off his face, but with what she thought was an admirable show of restraint she didn't lunge out of her chair and try to strangle him.

"So. How did you figure out I was coming?"

Jarod leaned back against the wall, grinning. "You underestimated the possible side effects of hormones." At her blank look, he explained. "Ricky-- the kid you talked to at the desk-- couldn't stop talking about the 'tamale' he'd met. By the time I came back to town it had become a running joke with everyone here, and when I asked him about it and he described you..." Jarod shrugged, his grin widening even further.

Oh, he was enjoying this, the bastard. Enjoying describing her as some piece of crappy Mexican fast food. "Stop grinning," she muttered.

"I can't help it," he said, with that goofy grin still plastered all over his damn face. "Every time Ricky called you a tamale, I kept picturing what you'd do to him if you heard him refer to you like that."

Unwillingly, one side of her mouth slid up in a half-smile. "I'd beat the shit out of him," she muttered, relaxing almost imperceptibly.

"That's what I figured."

They were quiet for several minutes, Parker staring off at the wall, ignoring Jarod's eyes on her.

"So. Are you here to buy me dinner?"

"Right." She laughed, the sound harsh in the small room. "I'm here to haul you back to where you belong."

Jarod looked incredibly, supremely unconcerned. "Of course you are, Miss Parker. And I'm sure the sweepers are waiting outside right now."

"The sweeper team _will_ be here any minute," she spat, making her voice as convincing as she could.

Jarod sighed. "Miss Parker, if sweepers were coming, they'd be here already. You're here on your own."

"Sure I am." She put every ounce of conviction into her voice. "Of course I'd come to your lousy hotel and do this without backup." As she said the words, she realized how absurd they sounded. She a complete idiot; she'd had no plan, no forethought. She'd just shown up here and-- and what? What _had_ she expected would happen?

Jesus, not even a year away from the Centre and she'd totally lost it.

Frustrated at herself, she stood without thinking and went to the window, not caring about the gun pointed at her. He wouldn't shoot her, anyway; they both knew that. Poking her fingers through the opening in the fabric, she looked out through the curtains into the nearly dark parking lot, wishing that she could make sense of the chaos in her head.

"Why are you here?"

Right now, she hadn't the faintest idea, but she wasn't going to tell him that. "Guess, lab boy," she snarled, whirling around to face him. His gun was gone, and he stood there with his arms crossed on his chest, just looking at her, barely more than a silhouette in the dimly lit room. "Time to go back where you belong."

He moved closer, looming over her. "Why?" he repeated.

Parker opened her mouth, ready to shoot back a comment that would shut him up, slice into him with cold precision, and realized the words weren't there. Heart pounding, she looked up at him-- this man she'd chased, this man she'd grown up with, who knew more of her secrets than anyone on this earth-- and had no idea what to say to him, because all at once she didn't know what the answer to his question was any more.

Jarod must have seen or sensed the change, because his voice softened, deepened, and something in his face made her throat tighten painfully. "Why?"

Just let me out of here, Jarod. She didn't speak the words aloud, but she thought them, and the plea must have shown in her eyes. Let me go, Jarod. Show me to the door and disappear back into your world, and let me try to disappear back into mine, because I think it might be the last chance I have to try.

Instead, he took a half step closer. "Was it this?"

His lips brushed hers, barely touching, as far from how he'd kissed her on the dance floor as it was possible to be. Just a brush of skin, and every cell in her body hummed to attention.

"Was it this?"

More this time, though still gentle-- a tender press of lips on lips, achingly reminiscent of that first kiss she'd given a wide-eyed little boy years and miles ago. Parker shut her eyes, frozen in place, drenched in the past.

"Or this?"

A soft kiss on her cheek, another closer to her mouth, then his lips met hers again. More confident this time, but still warm and soft; it was probably the most sweet, caring kiss anyone of the opposite sex had ever given her. Parker felt herself melting into him, into the unbelievable sweetness of his mouth.

How did Jarod get to her like this? She was the one who was supposed to be in control; she was the one who decided how and when and where when it came to emotion, to sensation. This-- this was way beyond her ability to control.

Parker pulled away from him with a strangled gasp, not looking at Jarod but knowing he was watching her, his breath coming hard. Turning around, she tried to catch breath. She couldn't; it was like her lungs were half the size they needed to be. What she doing here? She had lost her mind, she was sure of it. Her lips ached from the loss of contact, and she raised one hand to touch them.

"Why are either of us here?" she whispered against her fingers, not caring if Jarod could hear her.

Parker could feel the heat from his body, smell the faint musky Jarod smell that she remembered so clearly from the club that night. She didn't start when he touched her shoulder, feather-light. "Maybe we don't have any choice. Sometimes I wonder if we ever had a choice, or a chance with anyone else." Jarod's breath was warm on her neck, the back of his hand slowly trailing down her upper arm. "Sometimes I wonder if we were made for each other."

His words hit home, reaching into places she thought were long closed off. Uninvited, the thought came into her head that they would fit together like nothing she'd ever known; different than anything she'd ever had before, certainly different than her and Thomas. She and Jarod were made for each other, forged by the Centre, their pasts and their tragedies, shared and separate.

Could she fight this? Was it even worth fighting? She'd fought so hard for everything in her life; fighting against this suddenly seemed senseless. Impossible.

She pushed one last, lingering image of Tommy out of her mind, hard, and with a sigh that came from somewhere she didn't recognize, she moved her fingers from her lips. Taking Jarod's hand in hers, she drew it down to her breast.

His breath stopped for a moment, and she knew that he been sure of her reaction. That felt good.

Neither of them moved. Jarod's hand was nearly still on her-- it trembled, just a bit. Having made that first move, she was suddenly entirely uncertain of what would happen next.

Slowly, so slowly that it was actually painful, Jarod's opposite hand left her shoulder and trailed down to cup her other breast. His hands were warm on her, and with exquisite gentleness his fingers stroked her through the thin silk of her shirt, through the lace of her bra. Her nipples hardened immediately, sensitized, straining for more.

The last pathetic barriers inside her crumbled, and she leaned back against the warmth of Jarod's chest, feeling his heart beat, his quick breaths in time with hers. This was right, for no logical reason. It just was. The feel of him, the smell of him, the solid strength of his body against hers; it was right. This was everything, what she had probably wanted her whole life, and no one-- no one-- could convince her that this was anything but exactly what was supposed to happen.

Jarod's fingers teased softly at her covered nipples one last time, then his hands slid slowly down to her stomach, rubbing in lazy circles, pulling her closer against him. His lips touched her temple.

"Are you sure?" he breathed, the words so soft she might have imagined them.

Oh, yes, Jarod. I doubt I've ever wanted anything like I want you right now. It was amazing that he couldn't feel it, or see it radiating off her. Not trusting her voice, she covered his hands with hers and moved them up to the buttons of her blouse.

She rested her head against his chest, her eyes shut, feeling his cheek warm against her hair as he carefully undid the buttons. Parker had ripped open more than one blouse in her time, anxious to get past the preliminaries, but tonight each button was another moment that he was with her, thinking of her, wanting her. She wanted this to take as long as possible-- until one of them went insane with the wanting. Preferably him. This was totally different from that Saturday night on the dance floor; this was deliberate, gentle. It felt oddly like the end of a very long journey.

The last button undone, Jarod's hands slid slowly up the sides of the open fabric to her neckline, slipping under the shirt and pulling it back. The shirt was gone in a moment, tossed off like a rag rather than the $200 garment it actually was, helped by the quick shrug of her shoulders. She drew in her breath sharply as Jarod's hands glided down her bare arms. A quiet, practical voice in the back of Miss Parker's mind intruded into the haze. Turn around, Parker. You can't keep your back to him forever.

She didn't want to. Parker turned, pressing herself full against him and claiming his mouth as hers, feeling the muscles in his stomach clench as he responded eagerly, all his earlier gentleness replaced with urgency. He tasted faintly minty, warm and sweet, his tongue insistent and familiar. Jarod's hands were at the small of her back, eagerly dipping below the waistband of her skirt, and she smiled against his mouth. "I'm sensing an inequity here."

He pulled away from her, breathing hard, his pupils dilated. "What?"

Her eyes didn't leave his as she stepped out of one shoe, then the other. "I'm standing here with no shirt, and there you are fully dressed. This doesn't seem fair, does it?"

Jarod smiled, slowly, and he couldn't know that his smile aroused her more than anything he'd done. "No, it doesn't. Perhaps you can fix this problem?"

Oh, yes, she certainly could.

Smoothly, she tucked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, feeling him tremble as her fingers touched his skin. Slowly-- because if he could torture her, she _would_ torture him-- her hands slid up under his t-shirt, dragging it up his torso, fingers gliding over the taut muscles. Obligingly, he lifted his arms, and a moment later the t-shirt joined her blouse on the floor.

"That's better," she murmured, trailing her fingernails lightly along his skin, exulting in the feel of him, in finally seeing him out of his disguises.

Jarod looked down at her for several long moments; she felt very small next to him. One finger touched her chin, gently, almost reverently, then slid down. She arched her neck, eyes shut, everything focused on that finger. Down her throat, over her collarbone, to the front clasp of her bra, where it hesitated, drawing tiny circles in the curve between her breasts, waiting.

He was so damn _polite_ all of a sudden. "Oh, just undo it," she growled, reaching forward and snapping open the fragile lace with a quick, practiced movement, tossing the bra away.

She muffled his laughter with another kiss, focusing on his mouth while his hands explored her, trying to ignore-- for now-- the dull ache that was growing inside as her bare skin finally pressed against his, as his hands found her breasts.

Somehow, they'd made it over to the bed; Parker felt the backs of her legs bump against it. She pulled her arms from him-- reluctantly-- and got rid of her skirt with a rapid zip and shimmy; her underpants and thigh-highs could be taken care of later. Hating to have his hands leave her, even for a second, but knowing she didn't have any choice for now, Parker sat down on the bed in front of Jarod.

She went straight to business-- the clasp of Jarod's jeans. It wasn't much of a barrier; neither was the zipper. She pulled them down and he wriggled out of them quickly, obviously glad to be free of the heavy fabric.

"Boxers." She smiled up at him.

"Now you know." That initial uncertainty was gone from his face, and as Parker stood he pulled her to him without a trace of reserve or apprehension-- or gentleness; his need had completely won over his caution. The first full-length touch of their nearly naked bodies was like an electric shock-- for both of them-- and they fell to the bed, locked together on the cheap, rough sheets.

There was no rush other than the need within them, and it was pure luxury to have the opportunity to explore when, for most of their lives, time had been controlled by everyone but them. There was time to find out what touch, where, made him huff with surprised pleasure. Time to discover how he felt, how he tasted, how his skin glided over hers like warm, raw silk. Learning that the simple slide of his hand down the curve of her back set her skin on fire, drawing her closer to him so that she could feel his hardness, ever more insistent through his boxers.

Jarod's hands slid beneath her underpants, massaging her, fingers slipping between her legs and finding her more than ready for him before pulling sharply at the thin fabric, sliding them down and off of her. Smiling at her, his eyes caressing her face, he lowered his head and trailed his mouth, his tongue down her stomach, down to where only his hands had ventured, leaving her helpless and gasping.

She was lost, focused only on what his mouth, his tongue was doing to her; she didn't know how much time passed. Parker only knew that everything inside her was building to a release she desperately wanted. Her hands were twisted in his dark hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.

But not like this, she thought abruptly. Not yet.

With nearly superhuman effort she half-sat up, resting one hand on his startled face. She could see it in his eyes-- the thought that he'd done something wrong, that she wasn't enjoying this. God, if only he knew. He would, if she had anything to do with it.

She shook her head, understanding his concerns and allaying them with that simple movement. "Not like this." I want you as lost in me as I am when I look at you. I want to feel you inside me, Jarod.

He understood, and took care of the last physical barrier by slipping out of his boxer shorts. Not bad, the back of her mind noted. Not the world's largest, certainly, but more than sufficient-- especially when paired with a Pretender's intuition. With _this_ Pretender's intuition.

Turning his attention back to her, Jarod left a trail of lingering kisses down her neck to the hollow of her throat, to her breasts. Parker was having trouble concentrating, but the feeling of his hard shaft against her reminded her. She pulled away from him, every tingling nerve in her body screaming in protest.

"Protection?" She was breathing heavily, already covered in a thin sheen of sweat as she propped herself up on one elbow. "Non-negotiable." Brave words. Smart words, but if he didn't have anything she, quite honestly, didn't give a damn; she wasn't in any condition to stop now, and if he'd had a list of diseases half a mile long she'd have still wanted him inside her as quickly as humanly possible.

Jarod was in worse shape than she was. He was trying to collect himself enough to focus, and not succeeding, busy running one hand down her side, over her hip, like he had never seen a woman's body before. "Nightstand," he murmured. His hand wandered back, dipping between her legs.

Parker shuddered. "Hold that thought." Flipping over, she rummaged with one hand through the drawer and found a small foil packet; it looked a little past its prime but still good. "Voila. How nice that you're prepared."

"Hrmm."

Had he known? Was she that much of a sure thing, or did he pick up a different woman in every town these days? Did he have things that well Pretended in advance? No. If nothing else, she knew he hadn't been entirely sure what would happen with her. They were-- they had always been-- different. Unpredictable.

She caught her breath-- with her back turned to Jarod, he'd started doing something entirely wonderful with his hands; he seemed unable to stop touching her. He was rubbing at back muscles she hadn't known were tense, moving slowly down her back with arousing precision. Dear God, he was good, and she shut her eyes in hazy appreciation.

Focus, Parker. The reminder came not just from her brain, but from the other parts of her that were screaming for closure. She turned back over to face him and, leaning up on one elbow, used her teeth to help rip open the package. His eyes followed every move hungrily. Parker paused, smiling. "Couldn't you have Pretended yourself into me and remembered this?"

He smiled lazily at her, the smile full of so much promise that her body stopped thinking about anything but what was about to happen. "Miss Parker, this is one area where I have no interest in Pretending to be anyone but myself." He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, his hand lingering. "I'd much rather find out about you the old-fashioned way."

Sliding his hand back around to the back of her head to pull her close, he kissed her again, devouring her, though she was as much the aggressor as he and she came dangerously close to letting her instinct, her body take over, just from the heat of the kiss. It took every bit of strength she had to drag herself away from that mouth-- God, his mouth-- and finish at least part of what she had started. "Let me help you with this." Hands sure and certain, she slipped the condom onto Jarod, rolling it down slowly while watching his face, exulting in the effect she was having with the careful touch of her fingers.

Parker wasn't able to resist a quick stroke after the condom was in place, but she realized immediately she had gone too far. She could see the strain in his jaw. "Oh, God," he breathed. His fists were clenched in the sheets; impulsively she leaned over and kissed one of his hands. He shuddered, as if any more touch from her was too much for him to bear.

Enough. Her eyes locked with Jarod's, and with one easy movement she straddled him, hands on either side. God, he was beautiful, looking up at her, those dark eyes black with desire.

A moment's hesitation, a half-smile, and he was inside her.

They both froze at the sensation. Neither were virgins, but after chasing and escaping, after a lifetime of dancing around each other, being joined this way was both wholly terrifying and absolutely right. Had she always known this would happen? Had he?

Parker was afraid to move, to breathe, until the part of her that wasn't rational, wasn't logical took over.

Motion and friction and heat; simple things, really, but all together they were something complex and new, every time. She watched Jarod's face as she moved, slowly at first-- adjusting to the feel of him, to what made him respond. The tension inside her was gathering rapidly, and biting the inside of her lip-- drawing blood, not caring-- she increased the intensity and speed of her motion. Jarod's hands moved to touch her, urging her on. When his eyes met hers, dark and intense, it was as if they were in a place where time was stopping and speeding up, all at once.

He came before her, arching upward with a howl that sounded almost like anguish. Several heartbeats later she joined him with a wrenching gasp as everything in her broke open with surprising force, exploding in a rush of light and warmth and release that seemed to go on forever.

Collapsing next to him, she ran one hand over his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat beneath the damp skin. Eventually, Jarod stirred.

"You're still wearing your stockings." His voice was hoarse, but she heard the laughter in it as she glanced down and realized that, while her underwear was somewhere on the floor, she still had on her thigh-high hose. They were no longer thigh-high, but they were still on.

"I hadn't noticed," she said wryly, and then they were both laughing-- at the stockings, at the sheer improbability of being here. At everything. Parker sat up and peeled off the hose, tossing them to the floor, still laughing quietly as she laid back down next to Jarod and rested her head on his chest, her hair spilling over them like a silky cover.

Jarod slid one arm around her, and with his other hand he tugged at the blanket, covering them with its thin warmth. Right then, right there, Parker couldn't imagine being anywhere else. She could hear his heartbeat, gradually slowing; feel the rise and fall of his chest, lulling her to sleep. Thank God he's not chatty after sex, she thought drowsily, because right now she didn't have the energy to form a single word.

Tangled together, they slept.

* * *

When Parker woke up, she was in the bed alone.

The room was dim and stuffy, and smelled of sex and perfume with a dash of toothpaste thrown in. With the heavy hotel drapes on the window, it could have been noon or midnight. Parker didn't care. She had that wonderful, exhausted, every-bit-of-her-body-relaxed feeling that only fantastic sex could create. It was like waking up and suddenly discovering new pieces of your body that you hadn't known existed until someone helped you find them.

Parker wiggled her toes experimentally-- still there-- and was surprised when her stomach growled, loudly enough that someone in the next cabin could probably have heard it.

She waited for a wave of guilt to sweep over her-- and kept waiting. No guilt. She loved Tommy. She would always love him, and what she'd done was unfair to him. But somehow, she couldn't regret what had happened. It had, and though Parker didn't really put much stock in "fate," that's what this felt like. Now, she just had to think about what she'd do next.

Jarod's presence made that next step a little less clear. Where was Jarod? She glanced around. He wasn't in the bathroom; it was dark and empty. There were neatly folded clothes on one of the chairs, but they looked like her clothes, not his. He wouldn't have just left, would he?

Well, why wouldn't he leave? Asking herself the question left a surprisingly bitter taste in her mouth. He'd gotten what he came for. He'd stirred things up a bit, gotten laid, and could move on.

That's not fair, Parker, she said to herself as she got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, letting the cool liquid clear her head, staring at her dripping face in the mirror. Not fair at all. He didn't come to Oregon intending to get laid. _You_ started the dance at the club. _You_ tracked him down to this hotel, came in, got in his face. You didn't bring a sweeper team.

And you certainly weren't lying there motionless while he screwed your brains out, were you?

Jarod still hadn't returned, and after another glance at herself in the mirror she decided a shower was in order. Skimpy cheap motel towels aside, she'd feel better after she cleaned up a bit.

Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she stepped out of the bathroom and found Jarod sitting Indian-style on the bed, in sweatpants, stuffing a powdered sugar doughnut into his mouth. The drapes were still drawn, but he'd switched on a bedside light, and it gave the room a warm glow. Jarod grinned at her, unaware that half his face was dusted with the sugar.

"Good morning."

"Good morning yourself." She was amazed at the sheer relief that washed over her at the sight of him-- the thought of Jarod just leaving... it had obviously bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

"Hungry?" He held out a doughnut.

Parker pushed back an alternate reply to that question-- he looked damn good sitting there without a shirt-- and took the pastry, dropping down next to him on the bed, not worrying about the fact that her towel tended to gap in interesting places. "Now, this is a healthy breakfast."

"Every now and then, a little unhealthy food is good for you." He sounded incredibly satisfied, and Parker smiled as she heard the little boy who had eaten nothing but nutritionally correct food his entire life. He deserved some doughnuts.

"Right." The doughnut delicious, and she devoured half of it in a couple of large bites.

"Sleep well?" Jarod asked, quirking one eyebrow at her.

Parker laughed. "Fine, thank you." Oddly, she was completely comfortable; it was as if they'd had breakfast together-- on a bed, with minimal clothing-- a thousand times before.

"Mmm. I forgot something." Jarod leaned back over the side of the bed and brought up a paper drink tray, carefully balancing it. "Coffee."

"Oh, thank God." She busied herself with the creamer and sugar-- this was a latte kind of occasion-- while Jarod pulled a bulging bag from the floor where the coffee had been. "Jesus. Did you buy out a mini-mart?"

"I don't know about you, but I was hungry," he drawled, pulling a bottle of water out of the bag.

The coffee was great, hot and strong, but Jarod had a point; she was starving. Some 7-11 _was_ nearly empty of breakfast food. Muffins, fruit, various Hostess products-- he'd bought anything breakfast-related he could find, apparently, and there was plenty of both healthy and unhealthy food to choose from. Parker ignored the healthy stuff and continued eating the doughnut.

"You know," she said after swallowing a mouthful, "If you'd told me a year ago I'd be sitting here eating doughnuts with you, I'd never have believed you."

"Stranger things have happened. We've seen most of them, Miss Parker."

"Ghosts."

"Clones."

"Mr. Raines."

Jarod made a face. "He's the strangest of them all. You know, I dressed up as him one Halloween, a couple of years ago."

"You must have scared the hell out of small children for miles around." Parker peered at him, trying to imagine what he'd looked like.

"Pretty much." He shook his head, mock-seriously. "I had to get out of town quickly."

"You always do."

He chuckled. "I've learned to travel light."

She took a long drink of coffee. "Jarod..." Something was nudging at the back of her mind. "What brought you out here? Were you checking up on me?"

Those dark eyes looked away from her; he was remembering. "It was habit, really. I wondered. I actually hoped..." Jarod's mouth twisted in a half-smile. "I hoped I'd come and find out you were content. That everything was working out for you and Thomas. I wanted both of you to be happy." He was telling the truth; she could see it written all over him. Goddamn, he was a good person. A hell of a lot better person than she'd ever know how to be. "And?"

Jarod shrugged. "Something didn't feel right. That's why I came back." He cleared his throat. "I had to know."

She knew the answer, but had to ask. "When did you know?"

"When I saw you at the club that night." He reached out and brushed the back of his hand over her cheek with a simple affection that made something inside her twist painfully. "You were at that table with all those people, and you looked lost. You were smiling, but it hurt to look at your eyes."

Parker shivered; if Jarod hadn't already taken his hand back, she'd have pulled away. He saw her. He saw too much of her. Thomas saw what he wanted to see; he'd always viewed her in a slightly idealized light. Jarod saw everything that she had been, everything that she was, and he still wanted her. He looked at her with those familiar little boy eyes, now layered with adult emotions that tightened her throat and disconnected her thoughts. He made her feel fragile and exposed. It scared the shit out of her.

It was something she didn't want to think about right now.

Changing the subject always worked. "You know, Tommy told me you set up our first meeting." Don't let him in, don't let him see. Change the focus.

He paused mid-bite. "He did?"

"Well, he didn't know the whole history of who you were, of course." She tucked her legs up under her. "But I knew. I was furious."

"It wasn't really..."

"A setup. I know. You just put both of us in the same gas station at the same time." Remembering how she'd felt when she found out brought a flush to her cheeks. "Do you know how angry I was?"

Jarod smiled, tentatively. "I can guess."

"I doubt it." God, she'd been furious; if he'd been near her she would have killed him without a second thought or an ounce of guilt. "I felt like a pawn. You _control_ everything, Jarod. You hang up, you disappear, you move people around like pieces of a board game." He started to respond, and she shook her head. "I know. You didn't have control over your life for 30 years. I understand that. But sometimes you forget that the board game is made up of people, not wooden pieces."

Jarod's head ducked; it was clear her words hit home. "I know," he admitted huskily. "I've tried to change that. After I left the Centre again, someone almost died on one of my Pretends." It was painfully evident from his voice, his body language that this had been an incredible trauma for him, and Parker fought the urge to reach out to him. "I realized I was going too far. I was enjoying the retribution too much." He paused, looking away, and for several minutes he was miles away from the stuffy little motel cabin in Oregon.

Parker sat quietly, letting him remember. He'd go on when he was ready.

He shook his head, visibly bringing himself back to the here and now. "So I got some therapy. Pretender, heal thyself."

"Did you talk to Sydney?"

"A little, but he's not exactly objective. I took some time off from Pretends, from tormenting the Centre." His grin made it clear that he was back to tormenting his former captors without guilt. "I went out on my own and got some things straight in my head." He looked at her, and his expression tore at her heart. "Until now. Are you still angry about how you met Thomas?"

"No. Not any more." Distance, time and perspective had helped her understand his actions. "You just put us there. We were adults, and we did the rest." Parker raised one eyebrow at him. "It was our choices that kept us together, Jarod. No matter how smart you are, you can't control how other people feel."

He nodded, something infinitely sad in his eyes.

"So here we are." Fine mess we've gotten ourselves into here, Mr. Pretender. Wasn't it easier when we were just playing cat and mouse?

Easier, maybe, but her skin remembered how his hands had felt; she couldn't regret what had happened, no matter how difficult it made things.

"What were you doing on that Pretend?" she asked idly, picking a crumb off the towel wrapped around her.

"Hmm?"

"The Pretend that went south. What were you doing?"

"Helping a father find his runaway daughter."

Parker swallowed the last of her coffee. "Jarod, you're so predictable. Don't single people without kids or siblings deserve some help, too?"

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and a moment later he was laughing so hard that she had to grab at the cardboard drink tray to keep it from toppling over.

"So I'm predictable?" he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

"Just a little." Parker realized she couldn't remember if she'd seen Jarod laugh this hard. "Well, you _are_!" she said, laughing with him.

"Sorry." He rubbed his hand over his jaw. "I'll try to be less predictable in the future," he added.

Parker's smile faded, and they both knew why her mood had changed. The future was something she didn't necessarily want to think about right now.

"What are you going to do now?" Jarod's tone was neutral, nonjudgmental; apparently he _had_ learned something in therapy.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"You love Thomas." Jarod wasn't asking.

"Yes." She shrugged slightly. "I love him. But I'm not the woman he needs. I can never be that. I tried. The Centre... it really never gave me a chance to live this kind of normal life."

Jarod nodded, his face warm with understanding-- he was probably one of only a handful of people on this earth who could understand. "So what now?"

"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" She scooted back along the bed, resting her back against the headboard, setting her empty coffee cup on the nightstand. What could she do? She could go back to Thomas and keep trying. She could go back east-- could she go back to the Centre? Face Daddy and his bitch wife every day, deal with Lyle and Raines, knowing what they did in those secret labs?

She looked at the face of the man opposite her, remembering his hands on her, remembering how it had felt to look down at him and see herself reflected in his eyes. Could she hunt Jarod again, try to take him back into captivity?

No. Never again.

But there were dozens of other duties that the Centre could assign to her. Could she work at the Centre again, knowing what they did, knowing what they were? _That_ was something her mother had never wanted for her.

Jarod pulled another doughnut out of the box. When he spoke, he didn't look at her and his voice was quiet. "You think that if you left here, you would have to go back to the Centre, don't you?"

It was the question she'd been fighting with, somewhere inside, for weeks now, and she felt all the walls go back up inside. "I would have to. You know that, Jarod." Her voice was cold. She popped the last bit of doughnut in her mouth, and the sugar was bitter on her tongue.

"You do have a choice, Parker. You always have a choice." Jarod's voice wrapped around her like a warm, rough blanket, and she let herself imagine for just a moment that he might, possibly, be right.

Choices. Sometimes she felt like she hadn't made a single independent choice in her life. Everyone else had made choices for her-- her father, the Centre. She'd gotten away once; why did she have this sick feeling that she'd have to go back once they-- that dark, amorphous "they"-- knew she wasn't with Tommy any more?

She was lost in thought, and Jarod didn't speak as he put the nearly empty pastry box on the bedstand and moved up to lean on the headboard beside her, finishing off yet another million-fat-gram treat. His shoulder touched hers companionably, and she realized again how completely comfortable she felt with Jarod. It made sense, in strange ways.

"Last night, you said you didn't think we had a choice," Parker commented, licking one forgotten bit of sugar off her finger.

"In some things, I don't know that we do." He shrugged, just slightly, and though she didn't look over at him she could feel his eyes on her. "But your whole life shouldn't be black and white."

"Thomas or the Centre." She stretched her arms out in front of her, thinking. "I don't even know what else I could do."

"Bounty hunter?"

She shot him a glare, which he returned with one of his patented wide-eyed innocent looks.

"Or..." He looked pensive. "You could be an exotic dancer." He dodged her fist. "Hey, you're pretty talented, from my experience."

"Shut up," she muttered, only half-serious. "And since you brought it up, why _were_ you at Boo's?"

He grinned, his eyes bright. "I didn't expect you to actually see me. I followed you there, and was just watching."

"If you were just following me, how did you end up on the dance floor?"

He shrugged-- all innocence, except for the corner of his mouth quirking in a not-so-innocent smirk. "Just passing through?"

"For a Pretender, you're a lousy liar." He'd deliberately put himself in her path, and she knew it. He might not have anticipated how she'd react, but he'd deliberately made his presence known.

Parker glanced sideways at the clock on the nightstand. Oh, hell. It was late, she'd been here too long-- but she didn't care; right now, there was only one thing she wanted, and it wasn't leaving. Pushing away the last thoughts of Thomas, she rolled over onto Jarod's lap, her face inches from his. "You _wanted_ to see me," she whispered to him, her lips nearly touching his, her eyes searching his face. "Passing through, my ass."

"I like your ass," he murmured in response, grabbing the part of her body in question and pulling her against him; he was already responding to her nearness, to her hands running up and down his chest. She wriggled slightly, delighting in the effect she was having on him.

"Really?"

He kissed the side of her neck, the sensitive part just under her ear, and everything inside her went liquid. How, in one night, had he found that particular square inch of skin? How had he figured out that his lips on just that spot would send shivers through all kinds of interesting places on her body?

"And speaking of lying, Miss Parker, why didn't _you_ call the sweeper team when you found out where I was staying?" She could feel the rumble of his voice as his hands slipped up and under the towel, pulling it away from her and tossing it off the bed.

"I wanted to get credit for bringing you in." Now she was the one who was lying, and her hands moving over him, sliding down under the waistband of his sweats, made that excruciatingly clear. "I wanted..."

Whatever else she might have said was lost as his mouth, hot and sugar-sweet, claimed hers.

* * *

This time, Jarod didn't go anywhere, but fell asleep with one arm thrown over her, his feet tangled with hers under the covers. He looked so young, so damn vulnerable, and the amount of trust it took for him to fall asleep next to her-- well, it was more than she could grasp, even after the night they'd spent together.

As relaxed as she was, Parker knew she wasn't going to fall asleep. She stayed still for as long as she could, but the nagging voice in the back of her mind eventually won out. Careful not to disturb Jarod, she craned her neck and managed to see the clock. It was after 10:00 in the morning. Thomas must be frantic with worry.

Thomas.

This time, thinking of him, the guilt did smack her hard in the head and she couldn't suppress a groan. No matter where the relationship was going to end up, right now she was living with the man, and he had to be worried sick.

Fuck.

"What's wrong?"

Jarod had woken up, and she hadn't even noticed. She kept her voice even, light. "Nothing. Just thinking."

He knew she was lying-- she could see it in his face-- and he lifted his arm off her. "Are you sorry this happened?" he asked, his voice tentative. There was so much in that one question, and it was all in his eyes: hope, fear, a dozen other indefinable emotions. Even now, he was expecting to be hurt; despite his invincible Pretender shell, all his emotions were half an inch from the surface.

"No." Parker reached out and ran her hand over his face, relishing the rough feel of his unshaven skin, the strong, square line of his chin. "No, I'm not sorry."

His eyes studied her face. Satisfied with what he saw there, he smiled, and she felt that old familiar pang. Worse, now. "Good."

Jarod stretched, yawning. His skin was dark against the sheets, and she watched the play of muscles in his arms and chest with a hunger that should have been more than satisfied by now. It wasn't, though, and she pushed back the emotions, hard. Emotions got in the way; if nothing else, the Centre had taught her that there was a time and place for emotion. This was not the time. There might never be a time.

She had to get home and figure out what she was going to do next.

Jarod sat up on the edge of the bed, looking back at her over his shoulder. "I'm going to take a shower," he said lightly. "Care to join me?"

No one had ever faulted her for her lack of imagination, and the thought of what she could do with Jarod in a shower almost cost Thomas another hour-- at least-- of worry. Parker took a deep breath. "You go ahead."

She waited until she was sure he was in the shower before she slid out of bed. He was humming something, the sound floating out from the bathroom. The boy couldn't carry a tune, she noted distractedly as she dressed. Skirt, bra, top-- forget nylons. Forget the underpants, unfortunately; they were no longer in wearable condition, and she tossed the silky scraps in the trash can. Her gun was in a dresser drawer, the magazine nowhere to be found, and she tucked it in her purse.

She was gone before Jarod stepped out of the shower.

* * *

Thomas was home, as she knew he'd be; his truck was in the garage as she pulled in.

One look in her eyes and he'd know. If her eyes didn't give her away, all he'd have to do is take one look at her. She wasn't wearing any nylons. She was in the same clothes she'd been in yesterday. She was sore and tired, had at least one bruise that wasn't from running into the couch, and she didn't exactly smell like a rose. She smelled like Jarod, to be exact.

Any way she looked at this situation, it was probably going to be ugly.

She was barely out of her car before Thomas was at the garage door, his face alight with relief. "Thank God. Where have you been? Are you all right?"

Parker slung her purse over her shoulder, deftly avoiding Thomas' arms and brushing by him into the house. "I'm fine." She threw her purse on the kitchen table; as Thomas came up behind her she turned to face him.

"Where have you been?" He was genuinely worried, but Parker heard an undertone of something else in his voice, too.

He wasn't stupid. Of course he was angry, and she rubbed her hands over her face, thinking hard. She still didn't know what to say to this man; she'd broken his trust in the cruelest of ways. "I'm sorry."

"Where were you? Davis called, and I didn't know what to tell him, either. I just said you had another headache."

Parker sat down at the kitchen table and ran her hands through her hair, looking up at Thomas. He stood for a long minute, watching her, his eyes trailing down her body. She could almost feel the exact moment when he saw her bare, nylon-free legs; when he realized that he'd watched her put on those same clothes yesterday morning.

Thomas sat opposite her, landing in the chair with a graceless thud. He was pale, suddenly, and Parker fought a wave of nausea at what she had done to this man-- to this good, decent, honest man. And she knew she couldn't tell him where she'd been, no matter how much he deserved the truth. In this case, the truth would be far worse than a lie.

"I stayed at a friend's house."

"You couldn't have called? And what friend?"

Miss Parker prayed quickly, fiercely to her mother's God that this particular lie would hold up. "Remember Alan? Amy's friend?"

Thomas nodded. "So you stayed with him. Why?"

Fortunately, Alan hadn't called; perhaps there were miracles in this world after all. "We got to talking and I ended up falling asleep. Alan didn't want to wake me. I'm sorry I didn't call, Tommy."

Thomas studied her for several long moments, the lines around his eyes, his mouth, looking more pronounced than usual. When he let out a sigh and rubbed his hands over his face, something inside Parker loosened with relief.

"I'm just glad you're all right. I was ready to call the police, Parker." Most of the ghosts were gone from his expression. Most. "Anything we should talk about?"

Oh, Tommy, lots of things. Thousands of things. Just not right now. I don't know what to do right now. "Nothing major."

He nodded; he didn't entirely buy it, but knew her well enough not to push it just then. "Well, I'd better get to the site. You all right?"

She shooed him with her hands. "I'm fine. Go."

He stood, then leaned down and kissed her, briefly. Every muscle in Parker's body tensed-- surely he'd know; surely he'd taste Jarod on her lips, smell him on her skin.

But he didn't. He just smiled and told her to have a good day, then headed out to the garage. He paused before he opened the door.

"I was pretty worried about you, Parker," he said huskily. His face was to the door; she couldn't read his expression. "Next time, call."

She stared blankly at the door closing behind him.

Parker managed to get upstairs and get her gun put away in the drawer before she burst into tears.

* * *

She warned Alan, of course, and he promised to cover for her if needed. "And where exactly were you, Parker?"

Parker groaned, flopping her head back on her pillow. She'd called in to check her messages and reinforce Thomas' headache story, but wasn't going to bother going in to work. She was talking to Alan while curled up in bed, the portable phone tucked between shoulder and ear. "You don't want to know."

"Oh, yes I do."

"Then I don't want to tell you," she snapped, relenting immediately. "I'm sorry, Alan. And I'm sorry to use you as a cover story."

"Such intrigue! Hold on." She could hear him cover the phone receiver and yell something at a person in his office. "Sorry. Parker, I don't mind. All I ask is that someday you tell me where you were."

"Deal." She wiggled further under the blankets. "Now, I'm going to sleep. Talk to you later."

"Ah, so the lady is _tired_ ," Alan purred suggestively. "Not get much sleep?"

"Goodbye, Alan," Parker said firmly, clicking the phone to "off" and tossing the receiver to the foot of the bed.

Covers tucked up under her chin, she tried to quiet the commotion in her mind. Stop it, Parker, she said to herself firmly. You're not going to make any major decisions right now, anyway, so let it go for a little while. Just for a little while.

* * *

Somehow, Parker got through the week. If she let herself think about it, it frightened her that so much of her life since moving out here had to do with marking time: making it through another day, another dinner, another season.

She didn't let herself think about that.

Thomas didn't mention her overnight absence again, though he was extra solicitous and more than once she saw a shadow pass over his face when he looked at her. He wasn't stupid; he knew something wasn't quite right but he also knew she'd talk about it when she was ready.

Jarod didn't call, or try to contact her. Parker didn't expect him to. She tried-- hard-- to not think about him, but one morning gave in to temptation and called the motel. He'd checked out the day she'd left; no surprise there. He was gone, and she wouldn't see him for a long time.

Jarod was just something else she didn't let herself think about.

Late in the week, exhausted from work and everything she was trying hard to ignore, she went up to bed earlier than usual and had half-dozed off by the time Thomas came to bed. Stirring as he climbed in, Parker's stomach lurched as he spooned up behind her, circling one arm around her, his hand splayed warm around her waist.

When he kissed her neck, she didn't pull away. She didn't pretend to be asleep. There were a hundred different escape routes she could have used, and she used none of them.

Even as Thomas tugged the nightshirt over her head, she hated her body for responding, for fitting against his. She'd betrayed him. Cheated on him. Thomas would never do that to her; if he ever wanted someone else, he'd leave her first because that was the kind of man he was. He was a hell of a lot better person than she was.

"I've missed you," he murmured against her mouth, his hands sliding down her body, doing exactly what she loved, touching her just where he knew she needed to be touched. Parker didn't answer. She couldn't; he'd hear in her voice what she was trying so hard to push away. All she could do was distract him-- and she was very, very good at that.

It was as if she was standing beside the bed and watching herself make love to Thomas. She saw herself making the right movements, the appropriate sounds, right on cue.

But the only emotion she felt was despair.

Later, with Thomas sound asleep behind her, Parker buried her burning face in the cool cotton of the pillow and tried, desperately, not to scream.

* * *

Great big blinding flashes of inspiration had never really been her forte. Parker sometimes thought she had to be hit over the head with something before she'd accept it; perhaps that's why she'd been able to work at the Centre for so long before realizing she couldn't stomach it any more-- and, from what Jarod had told her, from the pictures he'd shown her of the young boy with Jarod's face, things were far worse than she'd ever imagined.

That Saturday morning, in the middle of a bowl of cereal and the business section, Parker looked up from a badly written feature article and glanced around the kitchen. Her kitchen, the room for which she'd picked out cabinets and counters and wallpaper, the kitchen she'd helped gut and rebuild, the kitchen where she and Thomas had shared hundreds of meals.

It was just a kitchen. How odd that, with everything that had happened over the last few weeks, she'd finally reach a decision over skim milk, raisin bran and stock quotes.

It was time for her to leave.

She knew, finally and completely, that she couldn't live this life any more-- and Thomas couldn't live any other kind of life. If she stayed here, she'd die inside. She'd become so bitter and angry and trapped that she'd lash out and hurt him. Tommy deserved better.

Maybe she was sick, maybe she didn't know what was best for her, whatever. But she couldn't turn herself into someone she wasn't. She'd tried. The night with Jarod hadn't made the decision for her. All it had done was thrown light on what was already there. She'd known this, inside her, for a while now.

She'd leave this house without regret, without looking back. She couldn't say the same about Thomas, the man who'd fought for her and given her the chance to break free of the Centre. There would always be a debt owed to him for that. But she couldn't stay with him because of that debt, or out of fear of the Centre drawing her back in. She had to be true to who she was.

Parker ate the last few spoonfuls of cereal as she walked to the sink, automatically rinsing out the bowl and putting it in the dishwasher. Thomas wasn't home-- he was out doing an estimate, then meeting a friend at the driving range-- and it gave her some time to think, to consider how she was going to handle this. He'd want to talk, to argue, to reason with her.

This was not something that was open to discussion, and perhaps that was the cruelest thing of all.

By the time Thomas got home, late that morning, Parker had already sorted through most of the boxes in the basement. The thought of getting ready to move-- again-- was exhausting, but she'd forced herself to dress and get started. Just figuring out which of the boxes were hers made her feel more energetic than she had in months.

"Parker?" Thomas' voice was muffled, and she could only just hear him from the corner of the basement where she was trying to remember why the hell she'd ever packed and shipped a box that seemed to consist of nothing but empty plastic bottles and a used fabric softener sheet.

"I'm in the basement!" she called. "Be right up."

She headed upstairs, batting at the dust and cobwebs that had managed to shroud her. In the kitchen, Thomas was finishing up an enormous glass of orange juice.

"Morning." He grinned at her, his skin flushed from exercise and the morning sun. "Don't you look clean."

Parker waved absently at a lingering cobweb. "I should have vacuumed the basement more often, I guess."

He was already gathering together the makings of a complete Thomas brunch: bacon, eggs, toast. He made it himself, since he knew how she felt about pork. "What were you doing in the basement?" he asked absently, not really concerned about the answer. All he was worried about was finding the good frying pan; it was just another Saturday morning for Thomas.

"Just sorting some things out." She sank into one of the chairs, watching him. One last time, Parker wished-- hard-- that this could work; the wish was so intense that she winced.

He peered into the egg carton. "This'll do it for the eggs." Setting the box down on the counter, he glanced up at her and paused. "Parker?"

"We need to talk, Tommy." She couldn't put this off, much as she wanted to.

"Talk?" He walked around the counter, sitting in the chair in front of her, his eyes curious.

"I've been thinking." Parker's voice trailed off as she looked at Thomas, his eyes questioning, the sun through the kitchen window dancing off gold highlights in his hair she hadn't even realized were there. As she watched him, trying to find the words, she saw his expression change.

Jesus, he knew.

"What were you thinking about, Parker?" he asked, his voice hollow. "I'm guessing it wasn't the bathroom wallpaper."

He knew.

"I think I need to move back East." The words sounded harsh and cold, but there was nothing she could do to change that or the meaning behind them.

"You're not happy?"

Parker started to reach out to touch his arm, but pulled her hand back. "I care about you. I love you, Tommy, but this just isn't my life. It's yours."

"So you want to go back to Delaware? You were miserable there, Parker." There was an edge to his voice now, sharpened by anger. "You hated your job. Your family made you crazy."

All true. "You're right. I'm not going back to that life."

"But you don't want this one any more?"

"No."

Parker could see him struggling for words, for questions, and she hoped desperately she didn't have to go into a lot of detail. Telling this man that she was miserable, that she felt trapped and smothered in this life, would hurt him in ways he didn't deserve to be hurt.

"So that's it. You're going to throw us away? After a year, you're just ready to walk out without even talking about it?"

"I've thought about it." There was a note in her voice, something down in the layers that Thomas heard, and seemed to understand.

"You really are serious about this, aren't you?" The anger had drained out of him, and he sat in front of her with his elbows resting on his knees, his face pale. "You're leaving."

Don't touch him. Don't reach out and touch his cheek and try to make it better, because you can't make it better for him any more. "I have to, Tommy."

"This has been coming on for a while, hasn't it?" She nodded, and he winced-- just slightly. "Is it someone else?"

"No." That, at least, she could say with conviction. This was her decision, Jarod or no Jarod. Ignoring her better judgment, Parker reached over and took one of his hands in hers; he didn't jerk away. "Tommy, I have to do this. As much as I care about you, I'm not happy here."

He twined his fingers with hers. "I could..."

"No, you couldn't." Parker shook her head. " _You're_ happy here, and that's not really because of me. This..." Letting go of his hands, she gestured around the kitchen. "This town, these people, even this house-- they're you, Tommy. They're just not me."

His gaze met hers then looked away. "And I'm not enough to keep you here."

There was nothing she could say, and her eyes filled with tears she couldn't control.

He leaned forward, resting his face in his hands for a long moment. When he looked up, she could see it in his eyes. He knew it was over, that she was leaving him. She was already on her way out the door.

Thomas reached over and brushed one thumb gently over her lips with almost unbearable tenderness. His hand lingered for a heartbeat too long, then he stood and went outside, his unmade breakfast forgotten on the kitchen counter.

* * *

Thomas slept in the guest room starting that night. For some reason, what bothered Parker more than anything else over the next few days was the fact that she hadn't finished painting the woodwork in that room. Thomas shouldn't have to sleep in the room she'd left undone. It was an irrational, illogical concern, but knowing that didn't make it go away.

Once she'd made up her mind, things moved quickly. She had a moving company at the house within a week, packing her things for the trip back East. She hardly saw Thomas in that week; he came home late at night when he thought she would be asleep, and left for work so early that the sun hadn't even risen. When she did see him, it was like passing by a stranger-- a polite stranger with dark circles under his eyes

However sure she was of her decision, what she'd done to Thomas hurt badly. It ached like her ulcer had, but there wasn't any medication she could take to stop this particular pain.

For the time being, most of her possessions would go into storage. Her house was still there in Blue Cove-- empty, except for a few large pieces of furniture. She hadn't sold it, but Miss Parker knew that she wasn't going to be living there again.

Living in Blue Cove meant only one thing: working for the Centre. She'd have to find somewhere else to live.

When she handed in her resignation to Davis, he went white with panic, then tried to convince her to stay. When he realized her mind was made up, he sighed theatrically and announced that if she wanted to start up an east coast office, she should consider it an open invitation.

Amy was practically in tears when Parker walked through the reception area. "Oh, Miss P. I can't believe you're going." She pulled a clump of tissues from a box and blew her nose noisily.

God, she hated this. It was just like Broots had acted when she left the Centre. "Get hold of yourself, Amy," Miss Parker said, smiling to soften the words. "It's not like I'm dying."

Amy swiped at her nose several times with the damp tissue. "Of course you're not," she said, her voice stuffy. "But you won't be here. It won't be the same."

Miss Parker touched Amy's shoulder gently. "I know. But things change."

"Change sucks," Amy said succinctly, turning back to her computer screen.

* * *

It wasn't as hard to leave Oregon as it had been leaving Delaware. There were few people to say goodbye to. Alan and Amy treated her to a long, silly, alcohol-filled goodbye lunch, which turned seamlessly into dinner, the evening ending with everyone falling asleep sprawled all over Alan's living room.

That afternoon and evening were the only parts of leaving that Parker would ever look back on with a smile.

Saying goodbye to Thomas-- that taught Parker that there were entirely new depths of pain for her to learn about, and she thought pain was one area in which she was already an expert. He was probably the most generous, caring person she'd ever met, and she'd hurt him so badly that he could hardly look at her.

More than anyone else, Thomas had taught her she could be kind, be gentle, be loving-- and she'd been anything but those things to him. Love had changed her, but not enough that she could stay; she'd have to live with that.

* * *

When she and Thomas had moved out west, she'd flown and let Thomas do the driving. Now, going back east, she was making the drive alone and, strangely, looking forward to it.

After two hours on the road, her morning coffee had caught up with her, and she pulled into a rest stop with relief. The bathroom was shabby but clean, and it felt good to wash her hands and splash some water on her face even after just two hours of driving.

Leaving the building, pulling her jacket around her, she scanned the nearly deserted plaza. There was a man sitting on one of the benches, his face upturned to the sun. Tall, dark and muscle-bound, to quote Alan in all his infinite wisdom.

Parker headed across the concrete and sat down on the bench next to Jarod.

"Miss Parker."

She smiled. The formality was comfortable, familiar. "Jarod."

He turned to look at her, his sunglasses reflecting her face back at her. "Heading east?"

"You know the answer to that question." There was still a little late-spring chill in the air, and she shivered slightly.

"So you're going home."

"Blue Cove, here I come." Parker shrugged. "At least for a little while."

"Are you going back to work at the Centre?"

" _No_." Her response was more emphatic than she'd intended, and the corners of Jarod's mouth twitched, resisting a smile. "I'm going back to see my father. And Sydney and Broots. And the house." She answered his next question without waiting for him to actually ask it. "After that, we'll just have to see."

"We will, won't we?"

They sat on the bench, silent, faces basking in the warmth of the sun. Parker was acutely conscious of him next to her, and she wished she could articulate what was racing through her mind. I don't know where this is all going, Jarod; I wish I could tell you. I wish a lot of things.

Amy had been right: change did suck.

Finally, Parker stood. "Well, I'm off. I have a lot of driving to do."

"About 51 hours, to be precise."

"Thanks for the reminder." She clutched her keys in her hand, half-turning to go back to the car.

"It's a pretty long drive to be making alone," Jarod said, his voice barely audible. If a semi had rumbled by just then, or a horn had blared, she wouldn't have heard him. But she did hear him, and she knew what he was saying. Asking.

It took two long breaths before she could reply. "Yes. I think it will do me good to have some time alone, though. To think." Parker sank back down onto the bench, wondering if the jumbled words in her head could come out in any sensible order. "I thought I could find what I needed here, and I couldn't. I thought I could find what I needed when I worked at the Centre, and we all know how well _that_ went."

Jarod's mouth quirked in a smile.

Please understand what I'm trying to tell you, Jarod. "I have to do this on my own." I need to do this alone. I need to find my life. Not Daddy's, not my mother's, not the Centre's-- not even yours.

He nodded, then reached out and took one of her hands in his, holding it gently, his thumb rubbing her skin lightly. They sat like that for several long minutes, not looking at each other. Maybe he was memorizing how her hand felt, maybe he was trying to say goodbye. Maybe he just liked the way her hand fit with his.

Finally, Jarod let her hand go with a light squeeze. "Drive safely, Miss Parker." His voice was soft, and more than a little sad. "Maybe I'll see you around."

With one quick movement Parker leaned over, her lips meeting his for just a moment-- gently, a reminder and a promise all at once.

"Maybe you will."

With a half-smile, she rose and left, walking briskly to her car. She knew he was watching her as she pulled out of the lot, but she didn't look back. She had 51 hours of driving ahead of her, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever's worth reading in this is due to my fabulous, fantastic beta-readers. Kelly has beta-read for me in nearly every fandom I've strayed into; she's my absolute touchstone and I have nightmares about writing in a fandom where she can't/won't beta for me any more. Karen was a cheerleader and a critic and I might not have survived this without her; she encouraged me all along the way, and stayed up late to read the good parts. Thanks to both of you for putting up with me through this process and being good, honest commentators and friends.


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